


black card is my business card

by secondfiddle



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: AU, What-If
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:08:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23695978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secondfiddle/pseuds/secondfiddle
Summary: au where tracey got her shit together and went to college, then proceeds to lose her shit. wip
Comments: 9
Kudos: 16





	1. leave him on read

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> theres no way in hell shes gonna swallow her pride and don a cluckin bell uniform.

When your entire family dynamic is held together by some of the most excellent liars God has ever created, you yourself become a career liar.

Lying is as easy as breathing air. Lying was taught at birth alongside walking and eating stuff other than blended carrots. Make sure to have your story completely straight before you begin. Always have a backup plan, but try not to have an answer for everything. Above all else, only cry when necessary. It gets really old the fifth time around. Tracey can write a fucking Liberty City Times bestseller novel on how her entire life has hinged on her perfected skill. 

Lie about a report card. Lie about not having a boyfriend. Lie about having the stomach flu so that she didn't have to take a pop quiz she most definitely didn't study for. Lie that she's so much better now and doesn't care at all that her friends are two sizes smaller than her. Lie to the psychiatrist because let's face it, absolutely nobody likes sitting on that couch and staring at that goddawful painting on the wall for a two-hour, five-hundred dollar a pop session.

Really, she was only honest on her college applications, and the fact she was accepted came as a shock to her. Sure, her grades weren't absolute dogshit, but it wasn't like she tried super hard or anything. She hates to admit it now, but Tracey cared a lot more about looking cute in history class than actually learning anything. She was friends with nerds for a reason.

Well, maybe those twenty million dollars sitting in her dad's bank account helped her out after all.

°°°

“What do you mean, it's declined?”

“Exactly what the reader says, ma'am. Your card's been declined.”

Tracey doesn't even have to turn around to know there's now a line forming behind her at the grocery store. The first thing she did at college was befriend other like-minded party girls, and it's her turn to buy the six packs and liters of fruity vodka. She can hear the old crotchety bitch after her huff and start to tap her foot, like she's twelve. Tracey wishes she could just whip around and beat her botched nose in, but she's a lady.

“Um. Uh. What does uh. Can I pay in cash?”

“Um, uh, I guess you can,” the cashier says, looking down at Tracey's bright pink designer wallet that screamed 'I don't manage my money well' over her horn rimmed glasses. “I'm telling you now though, sixty bucks isn't gonna cover all the stuff you have here.” 

“Oh, well. Just uh, the six packs and-” Tracey takes two Dull Duck vodka bottles off the checkout, sitting them on a shelf beside her. “Those other three bottles.”

The cashier quickly scans her items and acts like Tracey is ruining her life for making her punch a few buttons and hand her some coins. She unceremoniously thrusts Tracey's bagged goods into her hands and reaches across her to grab Crotchety Bitch's chardonnay to scan. Asshole doesn't even say 'have a nice afternoon’. Tracey rolls her eyes, then, idea.

Five minutes later, Tracey is about to slip through the door, purse now two vodka bottles heavier, when she stops at the door and looks over to the cashier, now busy scanning a scruffy man's fifth of whiskey. “Katey Rimmer?”

Katey freezes mid scan, blush creeping up on her cheeks when her customer and the second stationed cashier snort. “How'd you know my-”

“It's Tracey, remember? From Rockford Hills Catholic High?” 

It's her turn to stammer. “Oh uh. Um. Hey. How's it, uh, going?”

“Great, actually! I'm over at Los Santos Film School now, you?”

“Yeah, just uh-” She coughs and hands her customer their bag and receipt. Tracey steps aside to allow them to exit the store. “Just y'know, hanging around and stuff. Glad you're uh. Glad you're in school and all.”

“Thank you so much, really, it means a lot, especially coming from the girl who spread the rumor that I was mentally retarded.” Tracey's face kinda hurts from smiling so manically.

“I-”

“No, no, it's all good! Really though, have a nice afternoon, Rimmer! Glad to see you around!” Tracey waves to a now beet red Katey before stepping out into the humid Los Santos afternoon.

Her ex was right, she can be a real evil bitch sometimes.

There's more important things to worry about. Like the fact that there's no fucking way her card could have declined. 

She hops into her yellow convertible and swipes to her Shark Card app. Sure enough, there's enough money in her account to buy three grocery store's worth of vodka. 

There is, however, a lock on her funds. From the master account.

Tracey swears she almost cracks her phone screen with how hard her thumb presses on Michael's contact photo. The phone rings twice before being picked up. “Y'ello?”

“Daddy! Hi!” The chipper, Valley Girl act always worked, right? “You gotta help me daddy, I tried buying school supplies, but my card was locked. What's going on?”

Michael smugly chuckles. “Yeah. Where in your syllabus does it say that six packs of Pisswasser is a mandatory school supply?”

Tracey huffs. “Fine. It's for social activities. That totally counts as a reasonable expense.”

“Trace.” Goddamnit, here we go again. “We talked about this. Your spending habits get a little out of control.”

“But dadd-”

“I only will pay for the absolute necessities. Even then, you wanted to wean off of your parents supporting you, remember? We talked about this with Dr. Harper. It's one of your long term goals.” Shit, Tracey forgot all about those. Fuck Dr. Harper and her reasonable goal setting. 

“But I have like, maybe five bucks in cash. How the hell am I gonna get through the rest of the week?”

Michael sighs. “I don't know. Get a job, like a normal twenty-two year old in college has? Hell, even your brother managed to hold one down for a year. I heard Cluck'in Bell is hiring on the radio the other day.”

°°° 

Even after tearing through her closet and selling the designer wear she could bear to part with to the consignment store, she was only able to scrape together a measly four hundred bucks. 

There's no way in hell she's swallowing her pride and going to don a Cluck'in Bell uniform.

Tracey's brain starts running a million miles a minute while she paces back and forth in her apartment, glancing back at the measly two paper bags from the grocery store every once in a while. Fuck her dumb idea to sign up for alcohol for this party she only kinda wants to go to. Once anyone sniffs out a rich daddy's girl, they always sign them up for the expensive shit. Probably wasn't a good idea to tell everyone during orientation her dad was a stockbroker. If real life repercussions didn't entail basically half her family getting locked up for life, she would've blurted to the entire freshman class the actual truth, now that would be a great thing to stick on a resume. _Tracey DeSanta. Graduate of Los Santos Film School. Sorta okay student. Daughter of the guy who killed the head of a government-funded militia._

Tracey starts to take more clothes out of closet, ripping them off the shelf and tossing them on the bed, like they personally wronged her. Fuck her dad and his idea that all of a sudden he'd be responsible and not give into her every whim. Why the fuck did he decide now, two days before the biggest party on campus, he would remind her of her personal goals or whatever fucking bullshit Dr. Harper drones out about. 

The only reason she's there is to repeat the same shit you do every other week: _yes, I am perfectly mentally sound. Yes, I am going to become a productive member of society. Yes, I have forgiven my parents, especially my dad, for royally fucking up my sense of trust and reality. No, I no longer abuse alcohol or stick my fingers down my throat to puke up a midnight binge of whatever was edible in the fridge._ All for some Lamictal or whatever other pill she throws her way to turn you into a normal human being. Why can't she just toss some Xanax instead, at least then Tracey wouldn't be in the financial situation she's in now. She remembers one of her Uncle's T rantings long ago, something about how the cure is worse than the illness in the first place. He gets a bad rap, he's usually right about society or the establishment, or whatever he picks to rant about on that particular day. He's allowed to be pissed, poor bastard wasted nine years mourning about her dickhead dad who was balls deep in a stripper fourty-some miles away.

Tracey stops her mindless destruction of her closet when her hands wraps around something knit and black. Upon closer inspection, it's a ski mask, probably from a Halloween costume years ago. It's actually in pretty nice shape, no holes or stains. Why she would've brought it to college is beyond her. She does some questionable shit when she's in a cycle of mania, feeling like she's on top of the world and can get anything done. Probably packed it in with a hurry with the rest of her clothes months ago.

She sits down the mask, and like a mindless drone, her feet move her over to her dresser stand. She pulls out her sock drawer, and feels around for the particular flowered sock she knows is in there somewhere. She hits it after a few seconds of rooting. The prize she was searching slips out when she shakes it, and it falls neatly into her hand, her pink acrylics wrapping around the handle of the 9mm handgun her dad insisted on giving her before she left. For her protection, he said. Something about how he can't always be there to get her out of trouble or something equally dad-like. She remembers her dad sneaking her around to the gun range, Mom didn't like guns and probably would've cooked Michael for dinner if she found out Tracey owned a gun. For good reason.

Because now, looking at the gun, she glances back to the mask laying on the bed, and her brain really starts to develop a plan.

°°°

Tracey decides it's far too late to turn back now when she stops at the Globe Oil Station a good fifty miles away from her apartment. Her hands are shaking on the wheel of the car that isn't hers, a lucky find she found in a lot downtown. Her breath is hot against the mask, and the broken AC in the car isn't helping. 

_Don't fucking do this shit. This is potentially the dumbest shit you'll ever do._

Tracey steps out of the car, the gun in her sweatpants pocket feeling like a cinderblock tied to her ankles, dragging her slowly down into murky waters she's always know, but never dared to step into.

 _What if you get caught, asshole? That'll be fucking great, calling Dad from your holding cell, explaining to him that you did the one fucking thing you promised yourself you'd absolutely never do._

Tracey shakes her head before she pulls open the doors of the service station.

Thank fucking god, it's some punk kid running the counter. She also didn't want to get her head blown off her first robbery.

_And it better be your only._

"You know the fucking drill," she muffles through the mask, gun pointed squarely at the kid. "Give me your cash, all of it."

The kid looks fucking pissed scared, probably a year younger than her little brother. "Y-y-ou can't sca-scare me, that g-gun ain't real." 

Fucking Christ, really? Tracey fires a shot into the ceiling, making her and the kid jump, cheap ceiling tile raining down on her head. Fuck, she forgot how loud it was. "Now do you believe it's real?"

The kid is vibrating with fear, trying his best to get all the cash out of the register. His hands are clammy when Tracey swipes the cash from his hands, his face an ill-grey. Her fingers also shake slightly when she paws through the cash. Nine hundred and eighty-seven dollars, exact. 

She looks up, head gesturing to the glass case behind him. "Gimme three cases of Smoker's Choice Menthol too."

It takes him a solid minute to get the key in, unceremoniously tossing the cigarettes to her. She grabs those, and looks at the kid, lips parted like she wants to say something.

She doesn't, and quickly runs out, gun shoved back into her sweatpants. She spills her ill-gotten goods to the floorboard and floors it, gravel spitting everywhere when she starts hauling ass down the twisty backroads of Blaine County, eyes glancing back every few seconds to check for a cop on her tail.

°°°

She doesn't see a single one until she's almost back home near campus, her backpack weighed down by the cigarettes and money. She ditched the car a mile back into a shitty part of the city, somewhere she's usually too good to even step foot in. They're patting down a drunk student, who's shouting belligerently into the night air. She might as well be invisible.

She crashes into her apartment, unzipping her backpack and shaking it out onto her bed, the bills scattering every which way on top her clothes. The cigarettes plop on top, filling the room with a soft scent of menthol and tobacco.

Her brain snaps back somewhere deep into her memory when the scent hits her nostril, years ago memories she thought she shoved into the dusty crevices of her mind forever. She remembers _his breath as he hovered over her inebriated body on the wood steps in the hall, disappointment in his face she could kind of make out._

_"Tracey. Baby. We talked about this."_

_She's so fucking plastered, her tongue felt like lead in her mouth. When's the last time he's spoken to her for something other than cussing her out?_

_He sighs, and she suddenly feels his arms under her back and knees, moving up the stairs like she's a little kid again and fell asleep on the couch, magically waking up in her princess bed. Like a wizard._

_He sets her quietly down in her bed, and with some level of clarity, she can see how fucking tired Michael looks. Like that dick has anything to be exhausted about, all he does is sleep and mope around the house like a-_

_"Trace. I'm serious, this gotta stop." He kneels next to her bed, the smell of menthol gently washing over her face. "You're sixteen. Doing this shit isn't healthy."_

_She finally has enough control of her tongue to speak. "You don't have room to fucking talk," she slurrs, head bobbing back and forth. "You fucking do this shit all the time."_

_He rubs the side of his face, like he doesn't have time for any of her antics. "There's only enough room in this house for one useless drunk. I don't want you to be one too. You're better than that." He gets up, silently shuffling over to her door before he sighs again, words coming out shakier than before. "You're better than me. Don't be me, Trace."_

It took her six years and some menthols for her to realize the disappointment in his eyes wasn't for her, and she laughs. She laughs so hard she starts sobbing in the middle of her bed, surrounded by cash and memories she wished got erased.

°°°

The party is a fucking success, as if it would go any other way. There's a few things Tracey is talented at, and one of them is making a mean jungle juice. She's hanging with the leader de facto of the party, a girl around her age from somewhere near Liberty City. The girl is pretty, black hair and big hips, a real art hoe who's one of the many here on her parents dime. Tracey doesn't like her per say, but this chick also hates the bitch in the front row of their class who thinks she's a fucking genius for watching 2001 - A Space Odyssey, and as they say, a enemy of my enemy is my friend. Plus, they look pretty cute together, and what guy doesn't love two college aged girls with daddy issues?

Tracey wakes up the next morning in a stranger's dorm room, the walls plastered with posters of some pretentious shit movies her dad probably fawns over. She feels bile come up her throat, but she's not sure if it's from that or the seven cups of jungle juice she ingested last night. It's sorta peach flavored. Definitely jungle juice related.

She helps herself to the guy's stash of pain killer on his nightstand, taking a swig of water from a miraculously unopened bottle of water beside them before choking them down. She takes a few minutes to lie in bed, before she gets up and starts hunting for her clothes. 

She hears a groan and shuffle behind her before she opens the door, turning back to...Terry? Jake? Gabe? sitting up in bed, hair sticking straight up. He, also, looks like shit.

He rubs his eyes. "Tracey...fuck...did you-" He pauses to cough. "Didja leave your number in my phone."

She lies. "Yeah. And we go to the same Intro class. You'll see me around."

She shuts the door behind her. She's never seen the guy. Hopefully won't see him again.

Somehow she makes it to a Bean Machine near campus without puking in some nearby bushes. The taste of sweet, sweet caffeine and an english muffin slowly brings her back to life. She heads back out to the square, starting the trek back to her apartment, when she feels her ass vibrate.

At least she didn't lose her phone back at that dude's apartment, thank fuck. She curses, juggling her breakfast to reach for her phone. Swear to God, if it's Michael, or Mom, or even Jimmy, she's gonna wring their n-

She stares blankly at her phone as it softly chimes. It's a blocked number.

She answers. "Hello? Who is this?"

There's a dry cough on the other end of the line. "I knew you'd do something like this one day or another. I'm not sure if I should be disappointed in you, or your father more."

She blinks. "Do wh- How do you know my dad?"

He laughs smugly. "I wish sometimes I didn't know your dad. Or his friend." He coughs again. "How sweet of you to start humble, knockin' over some piddly gas station. Glad you decided to start small, Trace."

Tracey is suddenly very, very sober. "How do you know that."

He sighs, as if that was the dumbest question he's heard all his life. "I haven't met a single person who buys Smoker's Best, let alone menthol, except for Michael. I also don't know a lot of stick up men who wear pointy pink nails either. Not very hard to narrow down."

The lump in her throat grows bigger. "I-I dont know what you want but whatever it is, I-I promise I can give wha-"

He has the audacity to shush her mid-sentence. "I don't want anything. I'm sure you do though. I heard all about your money problems, your dad never shuts up about him or his family shenanigans."

Tracey says nothing, and he continues. "I'm an old friend of your dads. I can help you with your... financial predicament. I'm sending you my coordinates. Come over this evening, don't bring anyone with you, or try to call me back. We'll talk later."

He hangs up, and almost immediately afterwards sends his coordinates, which brings up a trailer on the outskirts of the city. The text is signed off with - Lester, and for some reason that name rings a few bells in her head. She remembers years ago, way back when they were in the Midwest, her dad ranting about some guy named Lester. Maybe the brains to everything? What the fuck would he want with her? She's not even nearly as versatile in the criminal workings as her dad, as if someone as old as him and even more impatient would want her under his wing.

Her nerves are finally subsided, and as she walks, she notices a text she must've gotten last night. From Uncle T, no less, sent at two A.M. The fuck would he text her at this hour? Anything, really. The only thing she really gets from him are random blurry pictures taken when he's even more high than usual, though she's gotten better quality ones since he semi-cleaned up. She taps on the text, and she feels all the color drain her face when she reads the message.

[ WATCHED THA NEWSS LAST NITE. ROBBERY IN MY NECK OF THE WOOD S. PINK NAILSS. WE NEEED TO T@LK.]>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so what started as a one shot is now a whole ass series
> 
> yee yee


	2. pull your cards, you decline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tracey just wants to go home

She crashes onto her bed, still littered with cash and cigarette boxes. She has a few messages from some friends she has left unopened. They're all the same, ragging on about how great her drinks were and inviting her to another party happening downtown, another one in a loft in the swanky, even more snooty side of Rockford Hills. None of it mattered to her right now. The cardboard cigarette case, digging into her side, didn't register to her.

_What the fuck has you done?_

She finally gets a grip and sits up, head spinning from the morning, maybe a bit of hangover she still hasn't shaken off. Twenty-two years old and she's already becoming a lightweight. She chucks the empty cartons in the general direction of her garbage bin, and gathers up the rest of the cash that wasn't spent on booze, bundling it together with a hairtie she always kept on her wrist. She slinks off her bed, and sticks it in her desk drawer. The cigarettes are spilled into a woven cubby basket she kept under her nightstand. Now she can think.

_About what?_

There's no way she's going over to this strangers place. What if he's a murderer? A stalker? Tracey doesn't try to be so obnoxiously narcissistic that she thinks she has one, but she was pretty enough to know a few creep friends of her brothers who stole her underwear when she wasn't home. Fuck, what if he was a FIB fed? She tries hard to shake the thought of her locked in some bunker miles away, waterboarded for information on a man that she hardly knew some days. Why the fuck would she take some random strangers word that he just happened to work with her dad? God, maybe it's another somebody from before she was even alive, a bitter old man looking for revenge. Answers. Eye for an eye.

Speaking of bitter.

Uncle T's face in her contacts almost kinda looks disappointed in her, if she squints a bit. Like he knows already. He probably does. He's mentally unsound, yes, but he's not stupid. Tracey doesn't have time for him right now, or ever, actually. Not about that. Maybe if she blows it off for a few days, he'll forget about it. It always worked on her parents. Whatever dumb shit their kids got into was insignificant to whatever they picked to fight about. 

She groans when a new message pops up.

[tracey, don't forget about our meeting, 5pm remember]>

***

Tracey shows up to the Romero dorm building, Floor 2, Room 307, at exactly 5:25pm. She overslept. Sam can wait.

She met Sam at a mixer a month or so ago. Tall, light brown hair and eyes, cute for a fuckboy type. Pegged him for a drug dealer type, talked to him a bit more, a rare occurrence. He pushes low level shit to the people at school: weed, adderall, carts, acid whenever there was a rave in town, the boring shit. Tracey thought it would be easy money to help him here and there, whenever she got bored and wanted something to do. Beside, Sam wanted into her pants ever since the mixer, so of course he'd spring at the chance to keep her around. Sometimes it feels wrong to take free drugs and not put out, but hey, it's his fault he thinks every pretty blonde who parties immediately wants to fuck him.

Sam invites her inside. "You're not good at bein' on time, huh."

She scoffs. "I was napping. It's the weekend."

Sam shakes his head and grabs a few Ziploc bags from under his bed. "Sure, sure, whatever. You do what I-"

"Yeah, I let the girls know where to get the goods. Sold a few tabs last night." Tracey stands in the middle of his dark dorm room, the only source of light being his colored LED lights strung haphazardly around. She tosses a few twenties on his lap. "There's your cut."

He unwrinkles the bills, stuffing them in his wallet beside him. "Nice, nice. You goin' to the house party toni-"

Tracey's a little too fast. "Nah."

Sam looks at her like she told him she wants to suck his dick right then and there. "Why the fuck not? From what I've heard, it's gonna be huge. It's Katie's parent's place, huge ass mansion, hot tub and everything."

Tracey holds back her laugh. Sam's telling her this as if they were still in elementary school and having a hot tub was like someone owning a fucking pet tiger or some shit. Maybe when she lived back in Whothefuckknows, Midwest, maybe. She's pretty sure it's a requirement in Rockford to own a hot tub. "My parents told me I have to come visit for dinner. Complete shit, I know."

Sam groans. "Did your parents forget you're fucking twenty-two?"

She shrugs. "My mom is having a hard time being an empty nester. Anything to make her happy, I guess."

Sam was bagging up a few pills for her, and tosses it to her. "Rough shit. I'll party for you."

She laughs. "Thanks, I guess."

He points to the baggies in her hands. "Try offloading those by next week. No pressure or anything. Same thing, seventy/thirty."

She nods as she heads out of his dorm room and back into the light. "Will do."

***

Sam won't give a fuck if she technically steals half a Xan from his stash. Especially for a time like now.

Tracey's knee is bobbing rapidly, her mouth making furious work of the piece of bubblegum in her mouth. She moves it aside to swallow the half pill, and regrets instantly when she got too lazy to search her car for an abandoned water bottle. She coughs from the dryness, and cracks her gum.

Her yellow convertible is parked in front of a plain...trailer? Townhouse? The exact coordinates the Lester guy gave her. She has her gun tucked under the floorboards, but decides against it. She does, however, have a pocketknife in the waistband of her jeans. In case shit goes south.

She cracks her gum again. As if she can hold her own against a grown man with a shitty pocketknife.

She gets the courage to cut off her car and get out, spitting the mangled gum out onto the dead lawn. Her blinding white trainers look like a beacon on the cracked wood of the porch, a neon sign that reads "I CLEARLY DO NOT BELONG HERE". She swallows the dread in her stomach and knocks three times.

She hears a whir about her head. Shit, that's a lot of cameras up there. She jumps slightly when she hears loud clicking behind the door. Probably a lock.

She jumps again when she hears a tinny voice above her. " _It's unlocked. Empty your pockets when you step inside. I'm in the third room on your right. Don't make me regret trusting you._ "

She steps in and wipes her feet off on the shag rug inside. She notices a big dish on the countertop right beside her. Guess this is where he meant? Against her better judgement, the pocketknife is sat beside her pack of gum and her phone.

Maybe she didn't need the pocketknife afterall. When she steps into the third room, she's greeted by a man hunched over one of the many desktops on the desk in a wheelchair, the room only being lit by the computer monitors and the lamp on a nearside table. There's all sorts of paraphernalia hung up in the room: maps and corkboards with things on them that only he could possibly decipher, newspaper clippings, some of them more yellowed than others, printouts and posters of scantily clad women, both real and cartoon. One lit cigarette and the whole fucking shack burns down, not a single anime girl spared.

The man- who she guesses is Lester, doesn't break eye contact with his screen when he gestures his hand over to a free roll around chair parked near the second computer rig. "Sit."

Tracey's chair squeaks when she sits down. "So. I'm guessing you're Lester?"

Lester snorts. "Well, you're brainy enough to figure that one out, I guess that's a good sign."

Tracey squirms a bit in her chair. "Why am I here?"

She guesses that was dumb enough of a question for him to not afford her even a glance. "I don't know. Why are you here?"

She laughs nervously. "I- I guess for whatever you were offering me?"

Finally, Lester tears away from his computer to look over to her. "I have a hole in my team right now. Actually, a few holes." He wheels over to some papers tacked on a board next to him, gingerly removing them and shuffling them in his lap. "This shit keeps stacking up, and I have only so many people I can off-load it on." He tuts. "Half of them won't take these anyways. Give a lowlife some cash and all of a sudden they're too good for some drug runs."

He looks back to Tracey. "Here's my deal. I give you jobs, start you out on something easy. You do it in a timely- and relatively professional- manner, and I'll give you more." He pauses to catch his breath. "I get my money first, you'll get yours after. I'm not pushing you into a team unless I think you can handle it. Sounds good?"

Tracey fiddles with her nails, running her fingers over every one, a nervous tic she never really dropped. "What kind of jobs?"

Lester shrugged. "Easy shit, for now. Just drug running near the area here and there. I'll give you something different when I think you're ready."

Tracey doesn't even think over it for long. "Sounds good. Just don't mention it to-"

Lester waves her off. "He's hidden enough shit from me, he can have a taste of his own medicine." 

Lester wheels back to his computer. "First things first: get rid of those godawful stripper talons."

Tracey feels her cheeks pink with embarrassment. "Got it."

"You need to get better with a gun. Nobody is going to take you seriously when you quiver like an alter boy near a priest with one in your hand." He hands her a business card with the downtown Ammu-Nation location header. "That's my guy. Tell him LJT sent you, he'll do a one-on-one."

Tracey nods. "Got it."

Lester turns his attention back to the computer. "I've already saved my contact in your phone. I'll message you when there's a job ready. Start prepping in the meantime."

Tracey gets up from her chair. "Thank you. I hope to talk soon."

Lester doesn't answer. She takes this as a hint to leave.

As she's grabbing her belongings from the dish, Lester calls out to her once more. "Also, we aren't in the Midwest. Don't spit your goddamn gum in my lawn."

***

Weeks past, and she never gets a text. Spring break comes and goes faster than she realized, her days now having her juggle schoolwork, exams, parties, and spare afternoons/weekends when she's not hungover spent at the downtown Ammu-Nation firing range, holding semi and fully automatic weapons she's only seen in movies with her now acrylic-free hands. She wonders if Lester completely forgot about her. She wouldn't be surprised. Her cash flow from Sam's 'business' isn't exactly free-flowing, but some other poor sap got relegated to alcohol duty in her friend group, so it's not like she's desperate. The people at her college are too hipster to give a shit about whether or not her jeans are this seasons, a relief from her days in private where you ate at the emo table if your bookbag had too many scruffs in it. She's had coffee with her mom a few times here and there, enough so that it doesn't look like she's ignoring them completely. Her mom has finally softened a bit over the year or so she's been gone, to the point where she actually looks happy to be around Tracey. Could be that. Anyone's bond with someone gets strengthened when they both get kidnapped by Merryweather goons. 

"Do you think living your life with more...freedom has strengthened your relationship with your mother?"

Tracey's sitting on the therapist's velvety tan couch, attention snapped away from the kids playing near her convertible below. At least Dr. Harper has better taste in interior design than Friedlander. Dr. Harper still fit that same category: new school with a look in her eye that seemed to pity whatever Tracey said, which annoyed the shit out of her. Too bad Friedlander wasn't around anymore, at least he semi-believed she also needed an Adderall prescription. Harper handwaved it and said Tracey was 'overmedicated' and cut her off of easy money. Maybe that's why she hates this bitch.

"I mean yeah, I guess." Tracey's fingers are itching to pick at the beaded pillow next to her. "I'm probably not as annoying to her when I'm not around as much."

Dr. Harper sighs softly. "Tracey, remember what I said with our last session. Using negative adjectives to describe your interactions with your family only helps to weaken the bond."

Tracey fights herself to not roll her eyes. "Right. Forgot."

Dr. Harper hums. "It takes time to undo bad habits, but small steps will get you there. Have you visited your dad since going to college?"

Fuck, Tracey's nail is trapped under one of those fucking beads. "I called him."

"Face to face?"

Tracey frees her nail and takes a bead with her, the first causality. "No."

Dr. Harper sighs again. "You need to make positive interactions with your father. It helps you heal and move on from the negative feelings and memories you may still be holding onto. Try to reach out to him, he's probably nervous and it takes you to break that wall between you two."

Tracey sits the pillow beside her again. "Yeah. Guess I'll take him out to drinks or something, prove I'm 'independent'." It sounds stupid as fuck leaving her mouth as it did in her head, but it sounds right. The last person she wants to have a drink with is her dad.

Apparently it wasn't right for Dr. Harper. "Drinks probably isn't a good idea. It's best to leave alcoholic beverages out of your interactions with someone who's previously struggled with dependency." Fancy term for _depressed old fuck who drowned his mistakes, both living and dead, with hundred dollar scotch_ , she supposes. "Are you getting better handling your manic episodes with your new medication?"

Oh yeah, completely better. Just ignore the whole _'driving to a gas station at 2am to commit armmed robbery'_ thing, and Tracey's been peachy fucking keen. "Oh yeah, completely better. Peachy keen."

Dr. Harper scribbles something in her notepad. "I'll call in a refill, you'll be able to pick it up tomorrow if you wish."

Tracey breathes a sigh of relief. Pill talk means the sessions over. "Awesome."

***  
She sees Lester's message when she's in her car after the session. It lists out the location and time: _3887 Atlee Street, Mission Row, 11pm for drop off. 292 Power Street, Pillbox Hill. 11:15pm_ for pick up. Downtown, looking it up on her GPS brings up a warehouse's alley and a half-built skyscraper. Not too far of a drive from her place, but far enough to annoy her. Too bad, money is money. 

She doesn't blame herself for being nervous waiting in the warehouse for the drop. She feels dumb, bouncing up and down on the heels of her black sneakers, the strings of her hoodie smacking against her chest in rhythm. Maybe this shit is a ruse, some joke Lester and her dad are laughing over right now, sending her ass to a empty warehouse in the middle of the night to freeze her ass off. What a smart fucking criminal she is.

She's about to stalk back to her car when she sees the lights of a truck peek through the dusty windows of the warehouse. The lights turn off, and two men step out, one of them holding a duffle bag. They both walk in, non-descript and plainly dressed in jeans and plain tees. The one with the duffle bag has one of those sherpa jean jackets on, worn with well-use. The other guy also looks like he's freezing his ass off. 

"You're the new kid?" The man with the duffle gestures to Tracey. "Finally they got my word and sent us a nice piece of ass."

The other guy and Tracey laugh weakly. She walks over to Duffle-Bag, and he hands it off to her, the bag surprisingly heavy. "You'll see to it she's dropped off?"

Tracey nods wordlessly. Duffle-Bagless walks off first, the other guy following. "We'll know if you decide to hog it all."

Tracey waits for them to leave before she heads into her car. Her curiosity gets to the better of her as she unzips it, and her eyes widen at the sight of the tightly-wrapped bundles inside. Fuck Sam, how much is she getting for running cocaine?

She pulls into an adjacent lot from her address in Pillbox, quickly running across the road in the dark. Nobody is really around during this time of the night, which is both good and bad. Her pick-up man is the one waiting on her this time, though she's perfectly on time. She ducks under the plastic tarp hanging over the steel bar entrance of the skyscraper in progress, dust kicking up around her. Tracey lets the guy look over the inside of the duffle, and he just nods at her in silence and walks back to his compact car parked on the street, peeling off into the night.

It's only a day later when she gets her deposit, the notification popping up during her lecture on the nuances of black and white comedy films. She sneaks a peak when the professor is waxing poetry about Charlie Chaplin. Fifteen hundred dollars isn't shabby at all for maybe thirty minutes of work. Forget selling acid to the EDM girls a few floors up in her apartment. Maybe she was lucky after all that her first stick-up left an impression, albeit a shitty one. 

***

Tracey fucks up on her sixth run. Really, really fucks up.

Everything is fine with the pickup. It's like clockwork, fine and dandy. Show up early, make a bit of small talk, leave for your next destination. Fine. Even a monkey could do it.

It all went downhill from there.

The dropoff is under the Pleasure Pier at two a.m, and Tracey feels like fucking shit. She crammed for her exam the night before, and is running on caffeine, a croissant she ate that morning, and two Adderall she popped an hour before the pickup. She's growing impatient when her dropoff men are late. Twenty fucking minutes late. Her bed is screaming her name miles away, and she just wants to go home.

She recognizes the silver Brioso swerving up on the hill from a few jobs back. Fucking great, they're high again. At least all she took were some pills, usually when they arrive impaired they're either coked up, drunk, or both.

The two men stumble down the hill, one of them more than the other. Once they reach her, she carelessly tosses the blue duffle bag to them. "There's the stuff."

The man moving less wobblier than the other wipes his nose on his red jacket sleeve. "Fuck you too, bitch. It's on you if this shit gets fucked."

Tracey doesn't have time for this shit. "Sorry."

The other guy in a black hoodie looks paranoid. "I don't like this chick, K."

Red jacket guy, K, scoffs. "Me neither, D." He grunts and grabs the duffle, and starts his way back to the car. "Who fuckin' cares, let's g-"

D's eye twitches. "K. I think she's FIB."

K turns back. "D, chill out, let's go."

D shakes his head furiously. "Fuck off K! She's a fUCKING FED!" He's yelling at the top of his lungs now, way too fucking loud for the time of night. " _THE BITCH IS A FUCKING FED!_ "

Both Tracey and K start shushing D. K kicks sand towards D. "D, seriously shut the fuck up, I've seen her before. She's fine."

D must not recognize Tracey at all, because in less than a second, he draws a long serrated knife from his hoodie pocket, and starts running towards her, 

Tracey didn't even feel it, but she heard the gunshot. She definitely saw her gun in her hand, shaking. She most definitely sees D face down, the blood getting soaked up in the sand. And she sees K run like a bat out of hell, the silver Brioso squealing as it drives down an alleyway.

Tracey runs like hell too. She feels everything when she's speeding home. She feels her heart beating lighting fast in her chest, she feels the hot tears running down her face, she feels everything and she wants nothing more than to stop it, reverse time to that morning a few months ago and tell Lester to fuck off.

She tears her clothes off, and tries not to scream when she sees the amount of blood spatter all over the front of her shirt and hoodie. D probably had a family. Friends. People who cared about him and loved him. Kids, maybe. Enemies, acquaintances, contacts. He couldn't even be a year older than Tracey. He was someone's son. Out there somewhere in the world, there's a mother waiting for her fucked up kid to just come home and start over. She'd probably cry harder than Tracey is now when she'd learn that he's been reduced to a body under the pier and spatter on Tracey's clothes. 

Her hands are quaking when she stumbles into her tiny bathroom, the peroxide spilling everywhere on her and her clothes in the sink. She doesn't even think and grabs her normal toothbrush and scrubs furiously at the cloth underneath her fingers, mind running so far she can barely hear herself think, _youstupidfuckingidiotitsoveryouredoneyouregettingcaughtandyourespendingtherestofyourlifeinajailcelloversomefuckingmoneybecauseyouwontgetarealjobyoudumbfuckingbitchyoudumbfuckingidiotyoufucking_  
The stain is still faintly there when she throws the wet shirt and toothbrush at her bathroom wall, taunting her. Reminding her.

***

Lester calls her three days later.

"I see things went wrong at your last pickup."

Tracey is crammed into a shitty one stall bathroom on Vespucci Beach, sweat dripping down her forehead. Lester seems to have a knack at catching her just at the wrong goddamn moment. "The dude tried to fucking gut me because he was coked out of his mind and though I was a fed, what the fuck was I supposed to d-"

Tracey wishes she could punch Lester through the phone when he fucking shushes her mid-sentence. "I smoothed everything out. You don't have anything to worry about. Nobody get surprised by a body under Pleasure Pier these days."

Tracey pulls up her sports bra and compression shorts. "Why did you call me then?"

"Because you could've told me in a better way you were ready."

Tracey blinks. "Ready for what."

"Ready for the different jobs. I'll be sending you a target in a few weeks. In the meantime, start practicing your aim."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> three entries in and i decide now is a good time to put them all together  
> i am very smart


	3. she bad, but clumsy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> slow and steady, wait until you're ready

If anybody would've went back in time a year ago and told Tracey she'd be on a rooftop in Rockford Hills, sniper rifle set up and aimed for some pot-belly pig dancing around with a beautiful escort in his Pegasus hotel room at one in the morning, she would've laughed and referred them to her psychiatrist.

She swears loudly in the night air when her scope bobs wildly again. She mumbles to herself, desperate to remember what the trainer told her: _Breathe in, breathe out. Slow and steady. Wait until you're ready._ Her pony is tied tight and high on her head, but the flyaways here and there poking free on the sides of her face are bothering the fucking shit out of her. 

Fat fuck (or Harry Rocksire, whichever is more appropriate) in the hotel across the street was apparently the next in line for the old oil money in their family tree, a wealth the Rocksires had spend centuries of other people's hard blood, sweat, and tears amassing. Fat fuck's younger brother, Xander, got pissed that his portly brother wants to piss it away on the finest cocaine and women money can buy, and contracted Lester's…'company' to pull it off. A few weeks and a fuckton of wasted rounds in the gun range later, Tracey is now freezing to death up and away from the target's drunken view. Waiting for the right moment. Harry's moved to the plush white couch now, receiving a lap dance from the girl he brought along. It's semi-hot, Tracey's not going to discount the girl's moves or anything, but she's in the goddamn way and Tracey doesn't have all night.

It still feels weird. Tracey still thinks it's somewhat wrong, killing someone she's never met. She's working on justifying it still, it's for money so it can't be as bad as killing someone in cold blood, right? Self defense is fine, monetary gain is still a grey area. If she twisted it hard enough, it might just be okay to ice some rich bastard that's fucked over the environment for the rest of the peasant population. Taking a life just because she feels like it is a line she's hoping won't ever present itself. 

Tracey's finger slides up and down the trigger, remembering maybe _the one and only time she ever got him to talk about those days, long ago before she was even a fleeting thought in either of her parents minds. Michael never dared to speak of pre-De Santa, pretended like it never existed. It always hung around the air in the house, like a ghost, or, to be more apt, a demon screaming to be exorcised. He seemed more tense recently. Fuck, when was Michael ever relaxed anymore? He always looked on guard at all times, waiting, watching, as if something will spring up behind him and finally get the last laugh._

_He was so, so fucking drunk as she drove him back from the country club, a once rare occasion now becoming a weekly occurrence. Drunk enough that he doesn't notice her taking every which way down the tangled streets of Rockford Hills just so maybe he wouldn't stop her from lapping up his stories-_

_"-and BAM!" Michael smacks the dash of his Tailgater, dialing up the dramatics a notch. "Knocked his ass clean on the floor. Pretty nice haul. Those shitty podunk town banks were always an easy score. The fuckin' worst security systems held together with duck tape and a prayer. All you needed was you, a buddy, some shotguns and a lot of confidence."_

_Tracey hums softly. "You ever do like uh-" She struggles to find a word that wouldn't set him off. "Were you ever like a hitman?"_

_Michael looks at her like she's speaking French, then lights up. "Ah yeah, coupla times here and there. Those were always tense. Good tense." He leans back in the aging leather seats. There's probably only a year left until he trades this one in for the newer model, before the neighbors get catty about the De Santa's and their 'vintage cars'. "There's nothing like it. Just you and them, and they're none the wiser about the world of shit they're 'bout to get. Don't think I'll ever experience the perfect quiet of just me and a rifle ever again." He smirks, like he's remembering something really special, one of the few things he's ever been proud of. "The one time you'll feel like God, Trace. Just one move and you play God, just for a single moment. And that's something nobody can take away from you."_

_They're pulling back up into the driveway when Michael claps his hand onto Tracey's shoulder. "Just don't forget: Slow and steady, don't pull 'till you're ready."_

Tracey snaps out her trance and realizes Harry isn't on the couch. He's lying back in the bed now, face perfectly lined up with her scope.

Maybe, for a split second, Tracey felt like God when she pulled back the trigger and the shot fired out, muffled by the silencer on the barrel. She knows she felt something different when the bullet went through the glass, and landed perfectly between the ears of one now dead fat fuck.

Tracey still could hear the shrill screaming of the poor escort when she quickly packs the rifle back into its case, and hurries down the fire escape stairs, down to the alleyway where her new, not yellow Oracle was parked below. It showed up beside her convertible last week at her apartment complex, with a note asking for her vehicles of choice to be more 'discreet'. Tracey was peeved, maybe for a few minutes, but she's not dumb enough to turn down a free car. She closes the trunk with the rifle case rolled into a car blanket, and drives off into the night.

***

"Mom, seriously, it's not the eighties anymore."

"What's wrong with them?"

Tracey can't stifle her snort. "They're leopard print. _And_ fur trimmed."

Amanda looks back at the mirror, moving her ankle every which way to get a better angle. "Too bad. I think they're cute."

Tracey walks beside her in the mirror to get a better look at the gaudy pumps. "I swear to god you already have these at home."

"I'm pretty sure you already have pink shoes, so I don't think you're in the position to argue here."

"They're like, completely different." Tracey flips open the Percii box she has near her, and unfolds the tissue paper. "See, they're Pastel Magenta. My other ones are Baby Bismol. Two totally different colors."

Amanda laughs, and kicks her shoes back into their box. "Fine. You get your identical pink shoes, and I'll get my pumps. Then we'll both be happy."

Tracey rolls her eyes, but can't help her smile. She'd be lying if she said she didn't miss this. For better or for worse, retail therapy with her mom was one of her favorite activities. She remembers many a weekend spent in the countless luxury boutiques that litter the Hill's strips, with red bottoms and impossibly tight jeans as far as the eye can see. She doesn't know why, but she just wanted to do something different than the usual weekend coffee filled with bland chit-chat about her screenwriting class. Besides, nobody needs to twist her mom's arm for her to blow some cash at Sessanta Nove. 

Amanda's eyebrow goes up when she sees Tracey's total once they're up at the checkout, a rare occurrence for a woman who doesn't blink at buying a fifteen-thousand dollar purse. "Your dad is going to wring your goddamn neck when he gets that notification."

Tracey signs the receipt. "Only neck he's wringing is yours." She picks up the large white bag by its black ribbon handles. "Before you get any ideas, I'm teaching a Xumba class at the gym near campus."

Amanda gives her a pointed look as they walk out into the shopping square. "What 'ideas' do you think I have?"

"C'mon, you know I haven't been, uh-" Tracey's free hand circles as she tries to find the right word. "Angelic before. I'm trying to be better. Independent, long term goals. Whatever dad bitches at me about."

Amanda's quiet for a moment as they head back to the car garage. "He just wants the best for you, honey. I hope you know that."

Tracey barks out a laugh. "Oh yeah, I definitely felt that love whenever he held my 'useless ass college' over my head for half a year. Felt warm and fuzzy."

Amanda sighs. "You know how he is. He can't express his feelings to save his life." She pauses to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "He misses you, Tracey. He wouldn't even let me pack up your room."

She doesn't know why, but Tracey can't look at her mom. "If he actually missed me, he could at least fucking call me."

Amanda tuts. "Well, I don't know how many times I can tell you, but he's proud of you. I'm proud of you."

They walk in silence until they reach the parking garage. There, Tracey sees the Pegasus, and a ton of yellow tape.

Fuck.

She plays dumb. "What the hell happened there?"

Amanda stands on her tiptoes to spot where Tracey was looking. "Oh, you didn't see it on the news? Some millionaire got shot on the fifteenth floor last night. One of the Rocksires. The family is in complete shambles."

Tracey knows. Lester let her in on his stock trading 'tips' and she bought multiple Rocksire Energy shares for less than a couple cups of Bean Machine. "God. I didn't even know. That's crazy."

Amanda shakes her head. "People in general are crazy." She presses the button for the garage elevator. "I still don't understand why people think they can play God like that."

Tracey looks at the hotel for one more second before she hops into the elevator. "Me either."

***

"I'm sorry, you want me to do _what_ , exactly?"

It's almost four weeks later when Lester calls her for another target. The pay from the first one was substantial, way more than her previous drug runs, but Tracey might've, sort of developed a bit of a shopping addiction. She knows she's gained some reputation around as 'that chick who killed a cokehead during a dropoff', so her drug runs have been few and far between. She's ignored Sam completely in the last month or so, and hasn't even opened any of his pleading messages. She's ignored really everyone on campus. There's no point in going to parties and mixers on weekends when she could be out making money. 

Not like this, though.

"You might actually be mentally fucking insane if you think I'm taking this one."

Lester coughs. "I don't see what the issue is. You'll at least be able to wear your bird talons for this one."

"You don't see the fucking issue? Lester, _you're asking me to be a fucking stripper for two weeks._ "

"It's just to get the target, he's set to be in town for two weeks," Lester explains, with a twinge of exasperation in his voice. "I'll be making you a fake ID to get set up in the club, all you need to do is look pretty for two weeks."

Tracey pinches her brow as she paces back and forth in her bedroom. "You don't need to make me anything, because like I said, _I'm not fucking doing it._ "

"I'm not asking you to give the target a handy before you kill him, y'know."

Tracey laughs. "No, you're just asking me to grind on his dick and flash my tits at him before I do it instead. Completely different."

Lester sighs."I'm offering you ten percent more of the cut. I don't have anyone else available for this. This is the last resort for me."

Tracey sits on her bed. "Make it twenty percent."

"You're killing me here."

Tracey shrugs. "Then I guess I'm not doing it then."

Lester's silence is long enough that Tracey thought he hung up on her. She hears papers rustling in the background. "Fifteen percent, that's all the more I'm going."

Tracey grins. "Deal. Let me know when everything's set to start."

***

Tracey will be the happiest girl alive when she no longer has to wear six inch platforms in a few days.

Tracey- or Roxxy, as she's named on her new ID, is lucky enough to be just a bottle service girl. For now. She took a few pole dancing classes back when she was a senior in high school for fun, but she doubts she could get into the teddy straddle nowadays. High Rollers is one of the more 'prestigious' strip clubs near the business districts, where bankers and upstanding family men alike pass through. David Trout usually doesn't come to Los Santos often, his main architecture offices are stationed in Blitzburg on the East coast. His new project, a blisteringly high glass monstrosity situated downtown, however, has enough complications that he's graciously flown over to oversee two weeks of meetings and construction. Tracey didn't listen to Lester past that point. He just needs to be dead. Tracey gets her money. No more information needed. Based on his previous credit card transactions, High Rollers is his preferred club of choice, usually heads in on a Saturday night to blow some steam and cash. Usually goes for tanned brunettes, based on his wife and his Addy Manson account.

Tracey tries to massage her scalp through the itchy brown wig, to no avail. The outfit the club provided for the Saturday theme night is impossibly tiny, the sheer genie bra and panties leave pretty much absolutely nothing to the imagination. The blue tulle veil draped around her head and face covered more skin, for god's sake. Tracey heads to the backstage bathroom with her purse, taking out the small glass vial once she gets the door locked. It's filled with god knows what, probably enough MDMA, and powdered heroin to take down an elephant. This target needs to go out silent, make it look like he was just another rich asshole who partied too hard. She slips it into the waistband of the stupid half-cape the house mom insisted she had to wear with the rest of the bastardized 'belly dancer' costume. At least it's useful for something.

The club is packed, chock full of men with more money than sense and the hotshots who pretend to be them. The rest of the girls have similar 'Arabian' costumes, the main dancers on stage with a much more elaborate (and revealing, if it's even possible to show more skin) getup. Tracey gets to work, walking through the cramped floor area to take orders for overpriced Heresy and LaRoc bottles. Her eyes sweep the room every time she comes around, trying to spot-

David almost slips by her. He must be a big enough spender to be able to come through the back, followed by a few other men that must be his colleagues. _Fuck_. It's pretty unfortunate he needs to be dead by tonight, David is definitely the daddy type. Dark hair, a little bit of stubble, nice physique. His face is impeccable enough that he's in the rare group of men who don't think it's gay to wash and moisturize his face. Has Tracey ever seen him on Fondlr? Couldn't have, he lives on the east coast. Not the point. This is possibly the worst time for her metaphorical dick to get in the way of things.

Tracey tries to not be too obvious when she beelines for David's booth, hips swaying to the beat of the Europop that definitely clashes with the weird Arabian Nights theme the club is trying to go for. David immediately goes for the three hundred a pop Cholpin, while his entourage stays with their mixed drinks. Cheap fucks. 

As Tracey sits the bottle and glasses in front of David, she leans in closer to him, making sure her chest is more in his line of sight than her face. "I don't do private dances often babe, but I can make an exception for you."

He smirks, but Tracey's not really sure if he's interested. Her confident smile doesn't waver, and she gives him a wink as she wisks away his crew's now empty glasses. She drops the act once she faces away from them to head back to the bar. She's absolutely fucked. Two goddamn weeks of blisters and sticky clothes from spilled sugary cocktails might be for nothing. 

Two long, grueling hours pass and absolutely nothing happens. David and his boys go to watch the main stage dancers a few times, and people other than the one goddamn dude she needs to reel in beg her for a private show. Tracey went from being nervous to being absolutely petrified. It's not like Lester gave her a plan B in case. She's sure he expects her to figure it out. Strangling him in the club's bathroom unfortunately became an increasingly more realistic game plan as the night went on.

She's snapped out of her mental planning of figuring out if her shitty tulle panties would be strong enough to crush his windpipe when her pager attached to her hip goes off. Table 33. David's table.

David - and his crew- are proper drunk, Tracey notices when she comes closer. She spots the empty glasses and groans. So much for getting her hopes up. She starts to stack the highball glasses littering the table but is interrupted by a whistle.

It's David, beckoning her to come to his side of the table. She rounds to the other side, and leans down to hear him over the deafening music.

"I want to take you up on your offer, beautiful. Let them know I want the Velvet Room."

***

The Velvet Room is one of the more spacious private dance spaces, tucked far back in the corridor of tiny rooms. There's a cart on the edge of the wall, stocked with an iced bottle of Dong Pieure champagne and matching glasses. She grabs the bucket and a glass while she leads David down the dark hall and into their room.

David wastes no time getting comfortable, legs spread wide on the green velvet couch that lined the wall. Tracey pops open the champagne, and pours him a glass. Her fingers move discreetly down to the vial, and she bends over to give David a better view of her ass while she dumps a good bit of the powder into the drink with an ever-increasingly shaky hand, making it almost bubble over onto the table. Lady Luck decided to look upon her fondly, however, and the powder melts instantly into the glass. She saunters back over to David and hands it to him, which he tips back almost instantly.

Shit. Now she actually has to strip.

She starts first by swaying to the R&B track playing through the soundsystem, hands tracing her hips. She was smart enough to at least practice in a mirror at her apartment a few times, because to say Tracey normally has zero rhythm would be too kind. She feels stupid trying to time the shake of her ass to the beat, but David seems to be enjoying himself. Maybe the drugs are working on him faster than she thought.

The second song isn't even half over when David rubs his hand on the top of his thigh. "Stop being a tease," he slurs, "And come over here."

Tracey slowly walks over to him, and gets situated in his lap, her legs awkwardly flanked on either side of his. His arms seem to be moving in slow motion when they reach around behind Tracey, and as he draws her closer, his fingers fumble to unhook her top. He's successful, and it falls into his lap. He looks up at her, his eyes almost black from his blown pupils. "Can I touch them?"

Tracey is pretty sure that's against the rules, but why not make his last few minutes on Earth as nice as possible? "Yes baby, of course."

David's hands move to the front, cupping her breasts. "God, these feel amazing, beautiful." He squeezes them as Tracey goes back to work, the music's bass pounding into her head as she grinds against his crotch. His head starts to bob back as she dances, her legs rubbing against his as she moves her body. She feels his grip on her breasts loosen more and more as time passes, until he eventually drops his hands down to his sides.

She loses time too. She has to admit, it's as much fun as it is hot. She definitely notices when she can hear gurgling noises coming from the body beneath her. 

She stops. David is twitching, foamy spit spilling out the side of his mouth. She hops off, and sits beside him.

Listening to a man choke and seize on a couch while electronica blares around the two of them is pretty high on Tracey's 'worst shit she's ever had to endure' list. Over the music, she can hear David growing quieter. She shifts over to gently grip his face. He somehow feels cold and hot at the same time, his skin sweaty and grey in color. She waits a few more minutes before checking him again, her fingers moving to his neck.

She doesn't feel a pulse.

She leaves him in the same position, and reaches down to put her top back on. She wipes the vial and champagne glass with David's dress shirt, and wraps her hand around the shirt to make a makeshift glove. She does her best to lift David's limp arm up, pressing his fingers to the sides and cap of the vial, and slips it into his pants pocket. Before she heads out, she grabs an ice cube and runs it across her eyes, making her mascara run down her cheeks. 

She runs out as easily as she can in her heels, and beelines straight for security, doing her best to sound like she's blubbering. "Y-y-ou hhave to help me I-I ddon't know what haappened-" She sniffs and wipes her face. "Hhe took th-his vial out a-and he snorted s-something a-and now he's n-not r-responding to m-me, yyou nneed to call 911-"

The security pushes past her and sprint down the hall. She walks back to the locker rooms, and hurries back into her sweatpants and hoodie, swiping her purse out. She kicks off her platforms to walk out of the club on her feet. Her car is parked in the farthest spot from the backdoors, and she waits for a moment before she pulls out and heads out.

She makes sure the strip club is far out of her sightline before she rips the wig off her head and throws it in her back seat.

***

" _Trouble is brewing for Yuppi Designs as their head architect, David Trout, was found dead in the High Rollers strip club Saturday night. Police say he was found with a cocktail of drugs, which they believe played into his death. High Rollers stated that they have a strict no drugs policy and deny any of their dancers offering-_ "

Tracey muted the TV when she hears her phone buzz. Fuck, it's Sam. She has no idea why he'd be calling her, last she heard he dropped out of his classes. She's honestly surprised he remembered her.

"Hey Sam, what's up."

She hears Righteous Slaughter 17: Zombies playing in the background. Sam is nice enough to pause the game before he starts to talk. "Hey Tracey. I was just, uh. How're you doing?"

Tracey shoves a spoonful of her cereal into her mouth. "Good. School is fine. Finals start on Monday which. Sucks." 

He laughs. "Yeah, yeah, bet it does." He's quiet for a split second. "I haven't seen you around at parties. What's up?"

Tracey chases a marshmallow in her bowl. "I'm always busy studying. Truden keeps springing pop quizzes on us that actually count for our grade, fucking senile dick." She's successful with her hunt and pops the marshmallow in her mouth. "Why're you even going to campus parties anyways? Didn't you drop out like, three months ago?"

Sam swallows. "Two months ago. And just cause I'm not there anymore doesn't mean I can't weasel my way in to sell."

"Figures." Tracey tucks her phone between her shoulder and ear to take her bowl to the sink. "Listen, I'm sorry for ignoring you, I'm just-" Tracey sighs, pouring the tinted milk down the drain to bide her some time to come up with something convincing. "I've been busy, and my parents are fucking fighting again, and my mom needs a shoulder to cry on. I at least owe her that much."

"Nah, nah, I get it." She hears a bag crinkling on his end, and shrinks away at the loud crunch of chips so close to her ear. "I just miss you, that's all."

Tracey rolls her eyes so far back into her head, she almost loses them. What the fuck does he think she is, his fucking _girlfriend_? "I do too. We should get together again."

She can almost picture him perking up like a golden retriever. "Really? Like next week?"

"Hell no. Finals, remember?"

"Right, right." Sam sucks in a breath. "The week after?"

"My parents are out of town. I have to babysit their cats."

"I thought your parents had a dog."

She pinches the bridge of her nose. "Sorry, I meant my friend."

"The...week after that?"

Tracey throws up her hands in defeat. "Yeah. Then."

"Awesome. Cool." Sam unpauses his game. "I'll see you then."

"Sounds peachy. See you then."

Tracey is drying her bowl when she gets another call. She's surprised when she sees Michael's contact photo on the caller ID. It's not even four in the afternoon on Monday, he should still be at the backlot.

"Daddy, hi! Did you leave work early today?"

"Hi sweetie. I need help with something." He sounds calm. _Very_ calm. Anyone knows that when he's that cool and collected, he's either putting on a front for someone he thinks he can make connections with, or he's ready to unleash utter fucking hell on whoever is unlucky enough to be in his general vicinity.

She might be wrong, so she decides it's best to keep playing along. "Yeah sure daddy! What's up?"

"Can you explain to me why the fuck my associate saw you at High Rollers with your tits out?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me posting these fics for the three other people who actually like tracey: https://youtu.be/4vkRIp86W9c


	4. im so paranoid, imma sleep when im dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mi casa, tu casa!

One of the keys of lying is to not. Well, sort of. Tracey has found that the best method is to sprinkle in a smidge of the truth into a well-crafted 'story'. Over the years, she's found that it works best when the party asking the questions doesn't know the full story. It especially works if it doesn't paint you in a good light. Novice liars always want to look good, advanced liars try their best to hide the most negative details, and experts know it's better to look pathetic and get a mix of shame, regret, and pity, than to look like a complete monster.

It's been a long road but Tracey perfected this recipe, so well she sometimes kicks herself for not filing a damn patent for it. It _felt like forever when she pulled her first one, back when she_ really _hated everyone and anything with a passion. It's been a year and a half since they uprooted themselves from the Midwest and buried themselves deep into the heat of Los Santos, and Tracey fucking hates it. She hates her fake house, her 'prestigious' private school where everyone makes fun of her barely-there accent, her entire existence feels like a nightmare she can't snap out of._

_She's pretty sure her mom hates her more right now._

_Amanda's knuckles match the tips of her french manicure, gripping the steering wheel of their SUV tight. Her lips are tight, a barrage of threats and general words of disappointment guarded behind the sheen of shimmery lip gloss._

_She finally lets it out. "Tracey, I don't think you understand how pissed off I am at you right now."_

_It probably wasn't a good time to talk, so Tracey says nothing as Amanda keeps ranting. "Are you fucking serious? Do you understand how fucking_ lucky _your ass is? You know what they do to you when you're eighteen- no,_ sixteen _\- and you fucking steal? They throw your ass in jail, Tracey." Amanda pulls out a cigarette and a light from her purse, having the decency to roll down the window as she lights up. "None of this cutesy ass 'responsibility' class shit. I'll be surprised if your school doesn't kick you out when they catch wind of this." Amanda takes a long drag, then looks over to Tracey. "Do you have anything to say for yourself?"_

_Tracey's eyes are glued to her jean skirt. "Kalee and Emmalyn dared me to do it." Her friends were none the wiser she was stuffing Swallow earrings in her purse, to be honest. They were unwilling accomplices, if anything. It's just pitiful enough to be believable._

_It works, because Amanda sighs and takes another puff from her cigarette. "I know you're having a hard time making friends here, but you don't do stupid shit like this to impress them. The whole goddamn neighborhood is going to know, and now my daughter is a fucking criminal." A sportscar cuts them off at the intersection, and Amanda honks hard and flips them off. "Don't think I'm done with your shit. You're losing your iPear for the month. It better be on my nightstand when we get home."_

_Tracey makes a noise of protest. "Are you serious? Mom,_ everyone _at school has an iPear. Nobody's gonna wanna be my friend. They're all gonna make fun of me. Again."_

_Amanda flicks her cigarette onto the sidewalk outside of their gates before she pulls in. "You should've thought of that before you decided it was a good idea to shoplift. Talk back again and I'll make it two months."_

_Amanda slams the stained-glass door shut behind them, stirring awake the mass sprawled out onto the leather recliner in the living room. Tracey goes to sit on the carpeted stairs while Amanda storms over to the living room._

_Tracey swears she could smell the mix of bourbon and three day old morning breath a room away. "The fuck was that for."_

_Amanda crosses her arms. "I was picking your daughter up from the police station. Glad you could come with me."_

_Michael tries to sit up, and fails miserably. "The fuck did she do now?"_

_"She shoplifted from Swallow. You would know if you were actually awake for more than three hours a day."_

_Michael runs his hand over his stubbled face. "So_ rry _I was fucking busy with work last night."_

 _Amanda's laugh drips with sarcasm. "Yes,_ thank you _for gambling our life savings away on your shitty stock plans instead of parenting your kid. It feels absolutely fantastic getting to be a single fucking mom every goddamn day."_

_Michael is usually toe-to-toe with Amanda during their arguments, but he looks as if someone sucked all the energy out of his soul. "The least you can do is be a parent instead of a goddamn girlfriend to those two."_

_Tracey winces a bit when her mom starts yelling. "Are you fucking joking? You're always the fucking good guy when you bother to step in,_ I'm _the one who has to actually put their fucking foot down and lay down the fucking law. It's always a fucking game with you. I'm shocked you remember their goddamn names half the time."_

_Great, she really woke him up and now they're both yelling. "Fuck you. I'm busy trying to dig us out of the goddamn hole you buried us in with this fucking house and your fucking shoppi-"_

_"Go rob another fucking post office if we're really that fucking broke. You're the one who said we'd be set for life, Michael, not me."_

_Whatever she said meant, she got him going. Tracey swears she can see the red in her dad's face just from the back of his head. "Oh, so back then you constantly wanted to give me fucking shit when I was out trying to provide for you, but now since it's fucking convenient you, you wanna bring this shit back up?"_

_Amanda doesn't waiver. "At least it gave you a fucking excuse why you didn't bother to be around for your children."_

_Michael rises from his chair. "And I'm not fucking here for them now? Every fucking time I do something it's never fucking good enough for you, Mandy."_

_Amanda's red now too. "Don't you dare fucking 'Mandy' me right now. What fucking hard requests do I have for you, Michael? Don't be a fucking man-whore? Actually parent your fucking children? Stop fucking killing anyone wh-"_

_Amanda looks behind Michael, and spots Tracey on the steps. She points a manicured finger up the stairs aggressively. "You. Go to your room. I don't want you down here until dinner. And don't think I forgot about you losing your iPear, that fucking thing better be on my dresser when I come up there."_

_They resume their screaming match once Tracey gets to her bedroom. She pulls her iPear from under her bed, and untangles her earbuds._

_If she cranks the sound up to its max, she can actually drown out the shouting._

***

Tracey tucks her bowl back into the cabinet before she proceeds. "Dad, I seriously don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't fucking play games with me Trace. Answer the question."

Tracey flops ungraciously onto her bed. She'll probably want to get comfortable for this. "Fine then. Yeah, I'm working at High Rollers. What's wrong with it."

She can hear Michael getting red through the phone. "Do you actually think I'm not going to have a fucking problem with that?"

"First off, I'm twenty-something goddamn years old, I'm pretty sure your days of dictating what I do are over." Tracey grits her teeth. He's gonna get pissed off at that one. "Secondly, it's not like I'm showing anyone my tits. I'm a bottle girl, not a stripper. It's basically like being a glorified waitress."

Yep, that pissed him off even more. "Just because you don't live with me doesn't give you the fucking all clear to do whatever the hell you want. You wanna pay for your own goddamn school and apartment too, since you're so fucking grown up all of a sudden?"

Against every fire safety video Tracey was forced to watch in school, she sits up to light up a cigarette in bed. "Fuck it, send me the bill. If it finally stops you from holding that shit over my head, I'll gladly get a loan."

Michael sighs. "Trace." Thank god, she's to the usual point in their conversations where he tries to be the 'nice dad'. Hard part is over. "That's not what I meant when I told you to get a job. Someone died there last weekend. Just because it's good money doesn't mean it's worth your life."

Tracey takes a long drag before she speaks. "Never stopped you from doing anything."

Great, now he's mad again. "And do you think I just fucking woke up one day and decided it was a good idea to do the things I did? I did shit I regret because I fucking needed to. I went straight for you. For your mom, for all of us. You think your mom is gonna be happy when I tell her you work at a fucking strip joint where someone got drugged?"

Tracey taps her cigarette into the ashtray on her nightstand. If this conversation goes on for any longer, she might try to light up the half-smoked joint in there. "He died of an overdose, nobody killed him or whatever. Besides, I already told mom, she's fine with it. You should at least be happy I fulfilled one of my long term goals."

Michael laughs. "Yeah, I'm sure Dr. Harper would be happy to hear you're a stripper. Positive progress you're making here."

Tracey stubs out her cigarette and puts the joint between her lips for her to light. "She'd say it's female empowerment or some shit. Not everyone has a stick up their ass like you."

"Oh, so now that I'm concerned with your safety, _I'm_ the one with a stick up my ass? You're fucking rich, I better not hear you being there eve-"

A blacked out profile pops up, interrupting Michael's ranting. Tracey finished that joint pretty fast. She tosses the end into the ashtray. "Gotta study. Great talking to you. Miss you too."

Michael's tinny yelling shuts off when she answers the incoming call. "Lester. How's it going?"

***

How, exactly, do you introduce yourself to someone who would probably get some feeling joy kicking you out of a moving car?

Despite her protests, Lester set her up with both a target and a partner. He promised it wasn't permanent, just a test to see if she was ready to integrate into a 'team environment', as he put it. She wonders sometimes if in another life, Lester might've been her creepy high school counselor. 

Her partner, Carrie (or C while on the job, something Tracey is _really_ going to have a hard time getting used to), hasn't spoken to her for the entire ride. She can't be more than a year or so older than Tracey, but she looks like she's been through the ringer enough times to make her ten years older and ten times more bitter at the world. She tucks her brown hair behind her ears, her tanned face pockmarked with scars. Her eyes are locked on the road, and the deafening silence in the car makes Tracey feel small.

Tracey finally decides to try her best and break the wall of ice between the two of them. "Sorry, we didn't really, uh, introduce ourselves back there. I'm Tracey, by the way."

Carriei doesn't look away from the road. "I know. You're the crazy chick who killed D on a run."

"Oh. Um." Tracey awkwardly coughs. "Sorry."

Carrie laughs. "Don't be. I fucking hated that douchebag." She leans over to pop open the glovebox, fishing out a cigarette. She puts it between her lips and rummages around the center console and comes back with a plastic lighter. "Need one?"

Tracey shakes her head, and Carrie shrugs. "Your loss." She rolls down the window so she can flick the ashes onto the road. "How long have you been doing this for?"

Tracey regrets turning down that cigarette. "Probably half a year."

Carrie makes a sharp left. "Damn, so you're really a greenhorn. Now you're really making me worried."

Tracey turns to look out the window, the bright lights of downtown Los Santos getting smaller and smaller in the distance. "I only shot one guy I wasn't supposed to. In self defense."

Carrie laughs again. "Yeah yeah, that's what they all say. No need to make an excuse for your bloodthirst."

Tracey sighs. "Trust me, I really...don't like this whole killing people thing. I get it's just a necessary evil, but-" Tracey laughs weakly. "I guess I still have a moral compass somewhere."

Carrie rolls her eyes. "Listen T, if I didn't have a fucking moral compass I'd be with Merryweather. They sure fucking pay better than this." Carrie taps her cigarette on the edge of the window. "I'd rather deal with a stingy boss than do some really reprehensible shit. I know some guys in there, and sniping some rich fucks to shake up the corporate world is all sunshine and rainbows compared to doing some real espionage shit in the name of 'liberty' and freedom, or whatever fucking excuse they pull outta their ass."

"Yeah. I guess dealing with Professor X is better than dying somewhere in the Middle East."

Carrie gives her a look. "Who?"

Tracey tilts her head to the side. Surely she's at least seen him? "Our boss. Lester. In a wheelchair? I didn't mean to be offensiv-"

Carrie's eyes widen in disbelief. "You've _met_ the guy?"

Now Tracey's _really_ confused. "You've haven't? I thought everyone did."

"Fuck no!" Carrie grinds her cigarette out on the dashboard before she tosses out the window. "Not a single soul I know has actually sat down with him. I get a call and that's it, dude. Not fucking shitting you, I've honestly wondered sometimes if he's even real."

"Oh." Tracey fiddles with the strap of her bulletproof vest under her shirt. "I didn't know that."

Carrie gets another cigarette from the glovebox. "He's a secretive motherfucker. Dude never meets face to face. Aren't you just a lucky asshole."

Tracey's resistance breaks, and she too goes for a cigarette. "Guess I'm just special."

"Yeah." Carrie hands her the lighter once she's done. "That's one way to put it."

***

Tracey tried her best to suppress any sign of nervousness on the ride to the target, but she can still feel it bubbling inside of her while her and Carrie gather their gear from the back of the car. She's never done anything this elaborate. The most she's had to do planning wise for any of her jobs is making sure whoever was unlucky to be hers was that they just stayed dead.

Yvonne and Patrick Kenway at first glance on paper are your average obnoxious home improvement duo. They've both been on HRTV (or as Cassie put it, "the whitest TV channel to exist), renovating homes for people with job titles like 'cat yoga therapist' and 'professional kite crafter' with budgets that make anybody's eyes water. They even have a line of wall paint at Workmart. 

They're also pretty good at tax evasion. 

Yvonne and Patrick have a laundry list of outstanding debts from Santo Capra to Vangelico, but Patrick on his own has quite the taste for gambling. Especially in casinos run by crime families who want their goddamn money.

Carrie tosses Tracey a black balaclava. "Plan's simple." She unlocks one of the three cases in the trunk, pulling out a carbine rifle. "Bust in, find Yvonne and take her hostage. We call Patrick and demand the ransom. Seeing she's pretty much half his income, it'll be a fucking cakewalk." She loads in the clip, and hands Tracey a pistol, which looks like a pea shooter in comparison. "Just follow my lead and everything's gonna run smoothly. If shit goes south, which it won't, I'll figure it out." She velcros her balaclava shut, then gestures to the back portion of the wrought iron fencing. "We're gonna get through from the back. I cased the joint last week, their security cameras are busted to shit back there."

Tracey lets Carrie lead the way to the back. Carrie goes first, slipping over the fence and landing feet first into the perfectly manicured hedges on the other sides. Tracey thanks her lucky stars her mom forced her to do cheerleading all those years ago. She's able to get over without much assistance, and she follows Carrie over to the sliding glass door. Carrie is able to make quick work of the lock, and they enter the basement of the villa, tip-toeing through the array of dusty exercise equipment to head upstairs. 

Carrie makes a motion with her hand to stop Tracey once they're at the top leading into the first floor. "We gotta sweep the rooms down here before we go upstairs. You take the left half." She doesn't even give Tracey a chance to speak before she moves silently through the open plan kitchen the Kenways perfected and implant in all their renovations, like some weird calling card. Tracey doesn't have much of a say, so she goes to the dining room past the kitchen. Other than the geometric steel chandelier over the table swaying ever so slightly, there's no sign of life. Same for the living room, washed out completely with the cream couch and snow white couch. She can't help but scoff at the fact that the whole place looks like one of the countless overpriced villas and McMansions the Kenways shill up and down the Pacific Bluffs. 

Her and Carrie meet in the entryway. She nods to Carrie, and they both head up the spiraling staircase to the second floor. Carrie points her down the hallway to the multiple doorways. "The master is the last door on the right. We're gonna clear everything else first."

They push through the multiple bathrooms and spare guest bedrooms until they finally get to the master bedroom. Carrie leans up against the wall beside the door, holding up three gloved fingers. "We go in three. One, two-" Carrie stops to pull black zip-ties from her jacket pocket. "Three."

The two of them startle Yvonne awake, and she has no time to rip off her silk sleeping mask before Carrie has the tip of her rifle against the side of her head. "If you wanna stay alive Yvonne, you're gonna shut the fuck up and listen to the both of us. Got it?"

Cassie flings the zip ties to Tracey, and she's frozen for a moment before she gets to work, binding Yvonne's hands behind her back and her feet together. She takes her position in front of the window, and puts her pistol back into her inner jacket pocket.

Cassie finds Yvonne's phone in the nightstand, and wrestles her hands free just enough to get her fingerprint. She scrolls for just a few seconds until she presumably finds Patrick in the contacts. Carrie places the call and sets it on speaker phone. She sits the phone back on the nightstand, and all three of them wait.

Patrick answers on the fifth ring. "Yvonne, baby...what're you doing up so late?"

Carrie leans closer to the phone, her sight never leaving her hostage. "Patrick, hi. You don't know me, but I know you owe a couple of very important people a shitton of money."

Patrick is silent for a few seconds. "Who the fuck are you?"

"Just a friend of the people you robbed." Carrie stands back up to reposition herself. "I'm here at your villa right now. If you want your wife to live, I think it would be a good idea to listen to my instructions."

"Yvonne?? Please, I don't know who you are, please let me speak to-"

Carrie sighs and picks up the phone, thrusting it in Yvonne's face. "Speak."

Yvonne's shivering, tears streaming down her face. "P-Patrick, baby, I-I don't kknow what they want, b-but they're serious, t-they have me tied u-up, please-"

Cassie pulls the phone away from her. "We've sent you a link to make a transfer to the account. You've got twenty minutes. Be smart."

She unceremoniously hangs up and tosses the phone back on the nightstand. 

***

Tracey feels like she's been here for hours.

It's been about fifteen or so minutes since Cassie ended the call, and so far, there's no word from Patrick. Cassie hasn't wavered, the tip of her rifle still pointed firmly on Yvonne's temple. Yvonne's quieted down since her blubbering on the call. She's now just sniffling here and there, cutting into the otherwise silent room.

Cassie's phone buzzes. She uses her free hand to pull it out, checking the screen.

"It's L. The payment went through on their end. We're good to wrap up."

Tracey nods, and moves over to Yvonne, pulling out a pocket knife. She starts balling again, and Tracey shushes her and points to the zip ties on her feet, which somewhat calms her down.

Tracey's halfway through the plastic and is about to give up, when Carrie's head perks up from her phone.

"Stop. You hear that?"

Tracey stops to listen. She hears a car door slam outside. _Fuck._

"What the fuck?" Carrie swiftly gets back to position, her rifle back onto Yvonne. "Your man call in your fucking security?"

She shakes her head as best as she could, tears falling down to her silk nightgown. "Nno, it has t-to be P-Patric-"

Patrick kicks the door open, the door rattling the floor to ceiling mirrors around them. He looks to Tracey, then Yvonne and Carrie, then Tracey again.

Carrie doesn't move. "Try some dumb shit and she's fucking dead, Patrick."

Patrick does nothing, just stares at Carrie. Tracey has her hand around her pistol, ready to draw if Patrick tries to get any closer to the two of them.

He doesn't. He instead runs full force into Tracey, sending the both of them through the picture window.

Tracey can't help but scream when she absorbs most of the shock from landing back-down into the Kenway's sprawling in-ground pool. For her troubles, she gets a mouthful of water. She struggles to get her vest off, allowing her to float to the top. She coughs and sputters for air, the saltwater burning the cuts littering her body. She's able to drag herself out, and tries to breathe for a second while she looks frantically for Patrick.

She finds Patrick when a hand grips her ponytail hard, and starts to drag her over to the deck. She tries to find her footing, her boots slipping against the water on the slick shale rocks that lined the pool. She's finally able to get up, and whips her head as hard as she can to throw Patrick off. She succeeds, and she brings him crashing to the ground back down with her.

She tries to move fast, but Patrick is faster, immediately climbing top of her on the wet rocks. Her vision goes starry when Patrick lands a fist on the side of her head. She can faintly hear yelling from thirty feet above her, but it cuts to ringing when Patrick lands a second blow to her head. She watches his lips move, but she can't be assed to try and read them right now.

She's able to gather enough energy to kick Patrick square in the balls as hard as she could. He reels back, and that's just enough for Tracey to flip the two of them over, with her sitting squarely on top of his chest. She feels like she's still in the pool, her body feeling a floating sensation while the rest of her brain that works is screaming for her to fucking swim, save herself.

She isn't thinking. Her hand grips tight into Patrick's crew cut, and she brings his head up sharply to smash it into the rock beneath them.

She does it again. And again. She's erratic in her motions, a robot who was just pushed head first into a pool and short circuited. Over and over.

She feels someone pulling her off of Patrick. It's Carrie, her hair pasted to her sweaty forehead, her pants soaking wet from the waist down. Her rifle is slung on her back, and she has Tracey's vest in her hand.

"Tracey, stop, we gotta get the fuck out of here before the cops arrive."

Carrie has to push Tracey in the back seat, and the two of them peel out of the driveway and start speeding back down the highway.

***

 _Huh, this isn't my apartment,_ Tracey muses when she finally comes to.

Tracey takes a second to take everything in, and then groans loudly when she tries to move even an inch. "Fuck I feel like-"

"A living bruise?" She recognizes that voice. Her head shifts over to see Carrie, standing over her with a roll of gauze and a tube of some kind of cream. "Falling out of a two story window into a pool kinda does that to you."

"What-" Tracey coughs, and tries not to cry out in utter agony when her whole body lights up in pain. "What the fuck happened? I remember falling through a window, that's pretty much it."

"I saw you and Patrick land in the pool, and that's when Yvonne tried to be better than a damsel in distress." Carrie unwraps the cloth bandage around Tracey's bicep, picking off the dirty gauze and wiping it clean with the cream and a cotton round. "I knocked her ass out and lost you two. I made it downstairs and watched you turn his skull into scrambled eggs on his deck."

Tracey grimaces. "Please don't put that food imagery in my head. I already feel like I'm gonna puke."

Carrie starts to wrap Tracey back up. "Sorry. First thing that came to mind." Carrie gets up and goes to the table, grabbing a baggie filled with rice and Tracey's pink iFruit. "I tried to save this. You're fucking lucky not to break any bones in your body, y'know. It doesn't mean shit coming from me, but be glad your whole back is just a huge bruise." She sets down the baggie. "Listen, I'm sorry I fucked up back there."

"Don't-" Tracey tries to sit up, but she almost screams when her back makes contact with the soft pillow behind her, and she slumps back down. "Don't beat yourself up. Some middle-aged home improvement fuck shouldn't have gotten the upper hand on me."

Carrie smiles a bit. "Doesn't mean I can't feel like shit." She goes over to her tiny kitchen in the other corner of the room. "I talked to Lester about what happened, he sounded pissed but I checked, we both got our usual cuts." She pulls out a bottle of brown liquor from the top shelf. "You need some medicine?"

Tracey lights up. "Oh god, please."

Carrie grins and pours her a glass. She takes it over to her, but stops Tracey from leaning up to reach for it. She puts the rim to Tracey's lip, and she's confused for a second before she parts her lips and lets Carrie tilt the liquor down her throat.

Carrie stops after Tracey gets a few big gulps. Tracey swallows, and she feels a drip of it fall down her chin. "Thanks, mom."

Carrie laughs and wipes the mess off Tracey's face. "Anytime. You can stay here until you can at least start walking around again."

Tracey looks around at the tiny apartment. This has to be literally the only place to actually sleep, unless you count the threadbare loveseat. "You sure? I don't wanna encroach on you or anything."

Carrie shakes her head. "I'll be fine. If she was still here my mom would beat my ass if I sent you home like this." She makes a gesture to her cramped space. "Mi casa, tu casa. It's not exactly the picture of luxury, but it's better than nothing."

Tracey sinks back into the pillow. "Thank you Carrie."

They sit there for a bit, watching the news on Carrie's grainy rabbit-eared display. Tracey looks up at her while she takes a sip of her own glass. Maybe it's the alcohol clouding her, but Carrie doesn't look as grizzled as she did the night prior. The soft light from the window helps to blend out her skin, giving her a bit of a glow. Maybe in another world, Carrie and her were friends in school, not split apart by wealth and neighborhoods. She was at least nice enough to not leave Tracey to bleed out in the backseat of the car.

The two of them are startled out of their trance when the baggie on the table starts to buzz.

Cassie whoops. "Son of a fucking bitch, it's still alive." She gets up and frees it from its rice prison. "Hey, it says someone named...Uncle T is calling? Want me to-"

Tracey waves her hand. "Decline the call."

Carrie raises her eyebrow but still swipes right to decline. "Ooookay? What's up with that? Weird boyfriend?"

Tracey can't help but laugh. "Fuck no. He's my uncle. Kind of. Sorta."

Carrie comes back to Tracey's side, sitting the phone on the pillow. "Does he know about... Y'know?"

Tracey shakes her head. "God no, I hope not."

"Kay." Carrie pauses and then cocks her head to the side, giving Tracey a funny look. "What do you mean, he's 'sorta' your uncle."

Tracey uses all her might to reach out beside her, throwing back whatever was left in the glass. "Get me more of this and you might be able to get that out of me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god its just over 5k words i deserve a cookie or something
> 
> if for some reason you want to listen to the music i use to write this, heres my playlist: https://spoti.fi/3fnxKmQ
> 
> hopefully y'all like carrie, i was getting bored with tracey just being solo
> 
> i promise you michael loves tracey sm hes just absolute garbage at things like 'showing emotion' and 'being positive'
> 
> poor trevor isnt ever gonna get his call is he


	5. all my checks got my name on the back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> despite everything, the complete and utter fuckery of this entire situation, she cant help but laugh

_Her head feels like it's going to explode._

_The blood droplets slowly start to cool on Tracey's face in the night air. She feels like she's back in the pool again_ (ears ringing and throat swelled shut, drowning, sinking down to the bottom of Earth. Maybe it's better to stay down there. Safer for everyone around her. How do you kill a blonde in a pool? Stick a scratch-n-sniff at the bottom and hope she never comes back up.) _Watching action movies all her life really didn't prepare her for this. It's always sterile on the silver screen, a clean hole in and out, just a trickle of blood left behind. Up close is so much more fucking disgusting to witness. His face almost looks unrecognizable, the shot pretty much blew his nose clean off._

_The bile building up inside of her gets to be too much for her to handle, and she scrambles to open the car door, spilling her insides onto the asphalt. She can't even blame anything on the cocaine, that shit faded out ten minutes ago._

_She stumbles out and tries to assess the damage, wiping her crusted mouth off with the back of her hand. The inside of the car is completely fucked. It would take a fucking miracle from multiple deities to get the stains out of the suede._ (She hasn't done a confession or even gone to mass since her freshman year of high school. Explains the fucking horrible luck) _Her pastel crop top, while super cute, was possibly the worst wardrobe choice she could've made for tonight. There's a big bloody circle on the front, surrounded by somewhat smaller dots. Her jeans, also just as fucked, with a large streak painted across her left thigh like a twisted preschool art project. She has a crime scene for a vehicle, in the middle of nowhere, complete with a fresh corpse to tie everything together in a nice shit package. She can't even fucking go anywhere, she looks like she's deserves a jail sentence. Or the death penalty. Thank god she lives in Cali._

_Tracey doesn't know if she's going into shock or just completely freaking out. Her hyperventilating doesn't help to get any oxygen into her body. Someone could drive by at any time. Anybody can see her, the car, and a limp fucking body in the driver's seat. All it takes is one fucking person and it's over. Nobody is going to spare any mercy to a rich, spoiled white girl who decided to brutally murder a kid. If she was even semi-lucky, she'd be on some shitty murder podcast, reduced to a crazy, murderous, drug-dealing sorority girl._

_She wipes away her hot tears. She's panicking. None of her problems gets resolved when she's busy panicking. She's running out of precious time every second she just stands around, waiting for her fairy godmother to clean up her mess. She has two options, and both are equally terrible in their own ways._

_She calls the lesser of the two evils._

_"I'm sending you my address. I need your help. Please hurry." She pauses to catch her breath. "I'll explain everything when you get here."_

_She may regret this. Probably. Definitely will regret not wearing something practical. Like a poncho._

_God, maybe she is a serial killer._

***

"Oh, so _you_ were the mystery man who sent the fruit arrangement."

"Yeah I um-" _God Tracey, chill the fuck out, you just met the chick._ "I just wanted to thank my nurse."

Carrie chuckles. "I got worried I had a stalker again." Tracey watches as she plucks a strawberry off the top, her movements lagging slightly. The only complaint she had about Carrie's place is that the WiFi was complete shit. She should've gifted her a better router. "Fuck, and you made sure it didn't have cantaloupe? How did you know I hate cantaloupe with a passion?"

Tracey smiles. "I'm pretty sure everyone hates cantaloupe. It's the middle child of all the fruits."

"Y'know, usually I do keto, so fruit's kinda out of the picture mostly." Carrie slides a pineapple chunk off a skewer, popping it into her mouth. "But I'll make an exception for you this time."

Tracey wrinkles her nose. "Ew god, you're a keto cultist? I think I'm retracting my friendship."

"Too late, can't do that now bud." Carrie licks the juice off her fingers. "I'm pretty sure it was permanently cemented when you almost drowned me in your ice bath."

" _You_ fell in, you absolute clutz."

"Fine, I'll leave you to your revisionist history. Whatever floats your boat, girl." Carrie pauses to bite into a grape. "You didn't have to do this, y'know. But thank you, I really appreciate it. I haven't had fresh fruit since I stole some oranges from my neighbor's tree last week."

"Don't sweat it. You didn't have to nurse my dumb ass back to health." Tracey stretches her arms. It's now a luxury she's eternally grateful for after dealing with a full week of not even being able to move her pinky finger without feeling like her entire body was on fire. "Any word back from L?"

"Yeah, he told me he was preparing something for us. He still had his panties in a twist over the whole pool incident, which I get." She surveys the arrangement, spying for her new victim. "But I mean, the mob got their money, the wife got her life insurance money, and we got our bag. Way messier than it should've been, than what I would've liked, but sometimes that's the way it goes. It was your first big job." She snatches a piece of dragonfruit. She crunches down, and almost immediately spits it back out. "Nobody's ever picture perfect."

"I get it. Trust me, it was a fucking joke trying to make my mom believe I had a week-long hangover." Tracey rolls over to grab a cigarette from her dwindling stash. "Thank god my professor believed I was out of town for my aunt's funeral. Those finals count for like, forty percent of my grade."

"You better pass those fucking tests, dude." Carrie settles for snacking on a starfruit. "I don't ever want to read an entire fucking chapter about lense flares to you again. I contemplated blowing my brains out a few times there."

"I'll do my best, mom."

"Damn right you will." She finishes off the starfruit, then looks back to her phone. "Shit, L's calling. Lemme get this. I'll message you if he has anything new."

"Sounds good. Enjoy the fruit!'

Carrie gives her a wave with a piece of honeydew before she stops the video call.

Tracey sits her phone on her lap and takes a long hit off her cigarette. Carrie wasn't such a hardass after all. Being basically glued to her bed for a week probably helped her force Carrie to warm up and let loose. Her initial bitterness and stand-offish nature was a shield, guarding her true nature of a laid back chick. Even her laugh kinda grew on Tracey.

Tracey wants to slap herself. She always has her composure around dudes, but any girl could give her affection and she immediately wants to fucking marry them. God, she's fucking annoying. The sole reason they spent a week together was because Tracey literally couldn't fucking leave. Just because Carrie did the right thing and didn't leave her to die in the back of her car doesn't mean she wants to date her. 

She's just deprived. She hasn't had sex since the house party, which at this point feels like it was over a year ago. She doesn't even really bother to date anymore. Her last steady relationship was probably when she was nineteen, before she decided to just stay single for the next few years. Perhaps being called heartless was apt, but she doesn't really give a shit. Love doesn't feel real sometimes when you live with two people who adamantly say they're in love, then turn around and tell each other to rot in hell. 

Really, her parents should be happy. Other than her chain-smoking, her normal college habits of drinking vodka like it's water, the occasional pill popping, and her putting her ability to walk around freely on a weekly basis on the line for a decent chunk of change, she's finally matured somewhat into a functional young adult.

They just don't have to know about her ever growing laundry list of felonies. 

***

_"Hey. You actually showed up on time."_

_Tracey pulls down on her crop top. She's not letting Sam even get a fucking peek of her tits. "I get it, I'm a complete shithead who doesn't know how time works. You've said it before."_

_Sam throws up his hands in defense. "Sorry, sorry. I didn't mean it to be malicious. It's just a joke. Chill. I'll drop you off if you don't wanna go."_

_The drugs don't help her to pinch off her agitation. It actually makes it a lot worse. Probably wasn't a great idea. She's able to slip into her bubbly blonde mask before he can see even a smidge of her true feelings, however. "It's cool. I'm fine. It's-" The coke's talking. God, she feels so jittery, she wants to get out and run a fucking marathon. She fucking wishes she listened to Sniff the Drug Dog in school. "Finals are fucking me up. So." She gets comfortable in his passenger seat, leaning it back a bit. "Where are we going tonight?"_

_"I'm showing you the stars."_

_Tracey blinks and cocks her head to the side. "What?"_

_Sam backs the car out of his designated parking spot behind the apartment complex and heads out to the main streets. "There's this gorgeous spot out in Paleto Bay I've been meaning to take you. You can see basically every fucking planet out there." He fiddles with his phone for a minute, and hooks it back into his vent grip once his GPS is set up and running. "I go up there to surf sometimes. It's a completely different scene than down here. People actually do it for fun. It's not a competition to be the biggest douchebag, unlike the Vespucci Beach crowd."_

_Tracey can't hold back her scorn. "Seriously? We're going all the way out to Paleto Bay to look at the sky? What is this, a date?"_

_"Not at all. I just wanted to take you somewhere fun. We're just hanging out. No need to get this twisted, Trace." He tunes the radio to Space as he merges into the highway. Wait, how the fuck were they already on the highway? Jesus, this is the last time she's doing coke._

_"Huh. I didn't really peg you as a funk kind of guy."_

_Sam shrugs. "I like a lot of music. Better to keep your mind open, makes you more creative." He's quiet as he switches into the fast lane. It unfortunately doesn't last long. "What do you listen to?"_

_Nowadays? Punk music. It's grown on her. She blames the alternative models she's hung out with. "Just pop. I'm boring, I know."_

_"Well, hopefully I can introduce you into something new." Sam laughs. "Half of those pop songs rip off old funk anyways. They're completely shameless."_

_Tracey carefully moves her purse to her feet. She can feel her pistol moving around inside, and the last thing she wants is for Sam to freak the fuck out going eighty-five on the freeway. "I'll try to keep my mind open."_

***

"It's just a bigass diamond, it can't be that hard to get."

Tracey laughs. "You've pretty much explained to yourself the difficulty level."

Carrie checks the bullets in her handgun clip. "Listen, if my friend could nab fucking nuclear codes, I'm sure I can grab a huge shiny rock."

Tracey wishes she had her can-do, devil may care attitude when it came to doing things that could land her behind bars for decades.

The two of them hurry to finish their cigarettes outside of the Los Santos Museum of Art and Natural History. Fortunately, if everything goes to plan, nobody has to die. Unbeknownst to Tracey, Lester wears many hats, and apparently being an auctioneer for rare and illegal goods is one of them. Deep in the Wild West of the internet are black market auction sites as far as the eye can see. Anything goes, from simple transactions of Social Security numbers and Shark Card accounts, to actual human fucking slaves, if Carrie's outlandish stories are to be believed. The Unity Diamond is on special display this weekend, a gaudy forty-eight carat precious black diamond stolen from India hundreds of years ago by one of the many British men who thought the entire world was theirs to plunder. It's now owned by a proud anonymous bidder with more money than sense, though the museum doesn't know that yet. The two of them are planning to slip through as the usual hired cleaners. Stay past opening, then go for the diamond, quick and easy. It sounds like a cakewalk when Carrie explains it, but Tracey knows her track record when it comes to things that should be cut and dry.

Tracey fixes the collar on her boiler suit. " _We_ need to grab a big shiny rock."

Carrie waves her off as she hops out of the van. "Leave the thinking and heavy lifting to me, blondie." She walks around to yank open the back, gathering their 'cleaning supplies'. "All your pretty head needs to worry about is not getting thrown through a window. There's a bunch of 'em in there. Very scary."

Tracey shakes her head in defeat. "You're never gonna let me live that one down, are you?"

Carrie's teeth almost glow in the dark when she grins. "Definitely not. You should get it tattooed on your forehead. Better yet, I'll get that shit engraved on your tombstone."

Tracey's fake laugh almost sounds convincing. "Hopefully you write it into your eulogy speech. For an extra punch."

***

_They stop on the edge of the cliffs, the ocean washing over the beaches below. Sam startles her a bit when he rolls down the cloth convertible roof so they can get a good look at the night sky above them. She tucks her purse under her feet, moving the strap back and forth. She can hear the cicadas chirping softly from the woods a few hundred yards away. Maybe if it was with anyone else, it would be peaceful._

_Sam looks up and whistles. "God, it's fucking gorgeous up there tonight."_

_Tracey tilts her head back. It really is beautiful. If she squints and tries to remember the astronomy books she had to read in middle school, she can string together some of the constellations. She remembers when she was a kid back home, her and Michael would go out on their piddly lawn and go 'camping'. They'd get eaten alive by the bugs that would hide in the grass that should've been cut two weeks ago, but they both were too young to care. Tracey, for a glorious hour, felt like the only important thing on Earth. Nothing stressful, no fighting, no uncertainty. Just her, Michael, and outer space._

_Tracey glances over to the driver's seat before she leans down and searches her purse for a crumpled bit of tinfoil. Bingo. She feels a bit gross interrupting her weird nostalgia trips by snorting some coke, but Sam doesn't get to see her cry._

_He does catch her with her ring nail in her nose, and he makes a face._

_"Seriously, Trace? Way to fuck up a good moment here."_

_She shakes her head. "Chill out. It's a Xan." She wipes her nose on the back of her hand. "I've been a nervous fucking wreck, dude. My aunt died." She feels it almost flowing through her body, her fingertips shaking. She snaps her hair tie against her wrist, something to make her feel grounded._

_Sam stares at her, through her soul. "You told me you didn't have any extended family."_

_She's so fucking fed up with this shit. "Yeah well. I lied. I do that all the time."_

_Sam smiles. God he looks so fucking smug. Tracey wants to reach across and just strangle him, crush his windpipe under her fingers. "I noticed. I've always known. None of your shit ever adds up, Trace."_

_Tracey throws her hands up. "Aren't you just such a fucking genius! Enlighten me more, oh fucking wise one, on how you know me so fucking well."_

_He schools his face once he realizes how pissed she sounds. "God, calm down. You just-" He sighs and runs a hand through his mousy hair. "I don't understand why you just…_ feel _like you need to make shit up." He looks back up at the sky. "I know you and yet sometimes I think everything you tell me is another one of your stories." He looks at her. "Does anyone really know you?"_

_She laughs bitterly. "Don't get all fucking philosophical white boy on me, Sam. God fucking forbid I don't tell my life story to some punk ass pill pusher."_

_Is he fucking_ moping _? "That's seriously how you see me? Fuck me for thinking we were friends." He squints. "Rich, coming from you."_

_"I'm a liar and I sell your pills for you. We're on similar grounds. Mine's just a little higher, I didn't fucking drop out of college to deal drugs." She doesn't give a fuck if it was mean. She doesn't have time for this petty bullshit._

_He leans back on his seat. "I dropped out for the dealing, it's more lucrative. But at least I don't kill nobody."_

_Tracey's laugh waivers a bit. "I mean yeah, you're the farthest away from a real deal gangster or whatever. You're a surfer kid from a Rockford Hills suburb. I'm a stuck up brat who lived two blocks away. We're both just rich kids who wanna make some money and think we're too good for normal jobs."_

_His laugh is dark, and for the first time, Tracey is actually a bit scared. "Wow, you really do believe I'm that fucking stupid. That Yuppi dude's OD had your name written all over it. I know your fucking game, Trace. You're not as brilliant as you think."_

***

"Tell me again why I was supposed to be here if you're just gonna do all the work?"

Carrie shushes her as she's chipping away inside of the digital lock on the glass case, her voice echoing in the empty museum. "I told you this already T, you're my lookout. Pay attention."

Tracey sighs like a bratty teenager, dramatically tapping her foot on the marble flooring. "There's literally nobody in here except for the security guard you choked out. Who exactly am I looking for?"

"Swear to god T, if I wasn't busy with this I'd fucking get up and pop your ass-" There's a loud click, and Carrie cheers. "God, fucking _finally_. Get over here with the bag."

Tracey walks over, black garbage bag in hand. It's pretty undignified for a diamond worth more than all four of their kidneys, their two hearts, and their livers put together, but they'd be braindead to carry it out loose. She shakes it open, and watches as Carrie gently puts it inside.

She ties it off once they're back at the van, and sits it between her legs. Carrie pulls around the back, and starts down the mainly empty highway.

Tracey looks over at her. "Did we seriously just get away with that?"

Carrie chuckles. "See what I said, T? Piece of fucking cake. See what happens when you follow my lead?"

Tracey has a grin on her face, until she sees three identical black vans merge on the highway and beeline right to them. 

"Carrie. Carrie. _Carrie_." Tracey smacks the side of her arm. "That shit behind us doesn't look good."

Carrie looks out her side mirror, and becomes whiter than a ghost. She jumps straight out of her skin when a bullet goes through the mirror.

"Shit. _Shit._ Fuck!" Carrie swerves slightly into the second lane when she turns around to grab an automatic rifle, thrusting it into Tracey's hands. "Fucking gun them down. I'll try to lose them."

"Are you joking?! I'm not shooting at the fucking cops, C."

Carrie makes a hard left to exit the highway. The vans don't miss, and get closer and closer to their back bumper. "They're not fucking cops, T. They're definitely not gonna arrest us if you don't just fucking listen to me, trust me."

Tracey has the forethought to at least cross herself and mumble a short prayer before she rolls down the window, leans out, and takes aim straight at the driver's side of the windshield.

She's not sure if the air from whipping down the street is louder, or the gun. She sprays around the window, cracking the glass. The first van she shot waivers for a moment, before careening into the metal barrier.

Their van squeaks around a tight corner, the two surviving vans following suit. 

Tracey reloads. "I thought Lester said he'd fucking take care of the fucking cameras!"

Carrie flinches when another shot goes through the back and misses them by an inch, exiting through their windshield. "He did! I don't know where these fuckers came from!" She jerks the wheel hard to the right, clipping a parking meter. "Just fucking take care of them before they figure out how to aim!"

Tracey goes for the one ready to tap onto their back to try and spin them out. They have the same idea, and the passenger pops out from the side, handgun pointed at her head. She's the faster draw, and gets him square in the chest. He slumps over the window, and she sprays the driver side. She sees them crash into a parked truck on the street, the delayed explosion able to be seen just slightly when Carrie rounds the second corner and pops back onto the freeway.

Tracey yelps and ducks back when the passenger of the last van starts firing. She tries to reload, but her hands shake so badly she can hardly hold the gun still.

Carrie looks to her left, then crosses over the low cement barrier over to the other side.

"Carrie, what the actual fuck do you think you're doing?"

Carrie's eyes don't leave the road, and she smoothly moves around the car coming straight for them, their horn blaring. "I'm playing chicken. Watch for me out there."

Tracey's side view mirror graciously was not shot at, so she watches as the black van wildly weaves in and out of the oncoming traffic, clearly just as confused as her. 

Carrie guns straight towards a blaring eighteen wheeler, and Tracey can't help but scream as the grill gets closer and closer to them. She swears her life flashes in front of her eyes before Carrie makes a hard right, and crosses back over the barrier. 

The van is not as lucky, and Tracey sees them get eaten into the front end of the truck.

Carrie heads off the highway. They head downtown to the dropoff, and pull into the designated warehouse.

Tracey slumps in her seat, and sighs. "So. How exactly are we explaining the damage?"

Carrie pulls out a cigarette and a lighter. Tracey doesn't know why, but she looks unsettled, as if the people shooting at them were ghosts. "Some cops followed us. We didn't stop, they shot first, we took care of them. Easy as that."

"I thought you said they weren't cops."

Carrie blows her smoke out the window. "They weren't. Lester doesn't need to know that."

Tracey looks over to her. Her lips are tight against her cigarette. She's never seen Carrie look this spooked. "Who the fuck were they then?"

"Nobody good. That's all you want to know."

***

 _Tracey laughs._ Play it off, play it off. _"Dude, I seriously think the acid rotted your brain out."_

_Sam's completely expressionless. "I know people, Trace. Not a lot of girls look like you. I connected the dots a while ago."_

_Tracey feels like a trapped rat, her legs stuck in a glue trap, just waiting to die. "You're fucking crazy. You actually think I'd bring myself so low to kill dudes for money?"_

_Sam shrugs. "I thought so too, but I don't really know anything about you anymore."_

_Who the fuck does he think her is, her fucking brother? Her goddamn dad? He's her fucking loser drug dealer. He's no Sherlock Holmes. "I moved on from your shitty hustle to my own drug runs. Your 'friends' are fucking nuts. I can't strip-tease to save my life." Her nose itches so,_ so _fucking bad, but she knows Sam would be so much of a fucking smartass that he'd probably point it out as her lying. "I'm scared of blood, I almost fainted when you cut your hand at that party playing the fucking Knife Game when you were piss drunk. You think I could stab some fucker to death?"_

_"The dude died of an overdose."_

_Tracey points at him. "See? I can't even fucking remember how he died. You think I'd remember if I was the bitch who did it."_

_Sam softens. "You're right." His eyes light uo a bit, like he remembered something, and narrows his eyes at Tracey. "What about the rich dude in that hotel though?"_

_"The Rocksire? Wasn't he sniped or some shit?" Tracey barks out a laugh. "You've watched me at the gun range. I can't even shoot a straight line."_

_Sam smirks. "True."_

_Tracey stills her fingers before they reach to snap at her hair tie. Another tell. "Just wonder for a second. How the fuck do you think I'd squeeze in college, my family, parties, and assassinations all jn a fucking week? I can barely show up to anything on time, let alone plan out a way for me to commit murder and successfully get away with it. Makes zero goddamn sense."_

_Sam takes the car out of park, and backs away from the cliff, turning down into the small town. "You're right. I'm sorry I'm being fucking crazy."_

_Tracey looks at him. "Where the fuck are you taking me now? You think I trust_ you _after you fucking accused me of murder?"_

_He doesn't drive for long. He turns down an empty street, and goes into an alleyway._

_Tracey is ready to jump out, but she wants to see where this goes. "Seriously Sam, what are you-"_

_He cuts her off when he leans over and kisses her._

_She pulls back a bit, but not enough to stop it. Damn, the kid really does have balls. She lets it go, and runs her hand through his hair._

_She feels his hand run up her top and squeeze one of her breasts. His tongue runs across her teeth, and she opens for him. His eyes are closed, long lashes dusting the bottom of his dark undereyes._

_Something dark runs through her brain. He knows too much. He's too close to figuring it all out. She pisses him off, doesn't grovel, and he'll fucking squeal to the cops._

__(Listening to him recount everything, she realized he sounded almost jealous. Like he was angry it wasn't him squeezing the trigger to take out a billionaire or two. He's fucking mad the bubbly, dumb blonde from school has it better and does shit that pays better than selling party drugs to the dirty hippies and ravers. He's seething, and he'll probably try anything to just pin her for everything and try to score some glory himself. She can't let him go. You never leave any witnesses.) __

_She grabs onto his shirt and takes him down to her, deeping the kiss. Her leg rubs against his crotch, and he's too busy moaning like a pathetic high schooler to feel, or notice, her moving down to her purse. She zips it open, and fishes for her prize._

_She moves forward sharply and pushes him back towards the driver side door, hand gripping his neck tightly. He sputters in surprise, and she pulls away from the kiss. She tries to push away the part of her that relishes in the fear and panic in his eyes, but it's still there._

_"God, you're so jealous of me, you know that? It's so fucking sad."_

_Sam struggles to get a word out, but all he can muster is a weak squeak._

_Tracey isn't smiling. She feels nothing. "Yeah, I killed the guy at High Rollers. And the Rocksire. And other people you don't know about." Her head cocks to one side. "You hear about the Unity Diamond? I fucking stole it. Got paid nine fucking grand too. Don't you take three fucking months to make that much?" Her other hand is behind her back, concealing the gun. "I even killed some cops. You're too much of a fucking pussy to do that to move up from your dumb wannabe Scarface deal, right?" Her brain is screaming, crying for her to fucking stop, just shut the fuck up and _do it._ "I've got little buddies too. Difference is, they make me money. A shitton of it. And honestly, I don't give a fuck what I have to do to earn it."_

_She feels Sam kick her, and her response is to tighten the grip on his windpipe. His face gets even redder._

_"By the way, dickhead?" Tracey moves the gun to the front, directed square at his face. His eyes almost pop out of his skull. "Don't fucking call me Trace. My fucking dad does that. Total turn off, dude."_

_The shot is loud, but the only reason she flinches is because she didn't expect Sam's brains to fly so violently across her face._

***

She paces back and forth down the dirty alley, never straying too far from the car. She can't risk it, as much as she wants to run far away from her problems. God, how fucking far of a drive is it to Paleto Bay? Fucker must be all the way in Los Santos. Suspicious, but she's in no position to judge.

She looks up at the starry sky and starts to cry. She's fucking losing it. Maybe she should go back to church. Any time shit got bad, really bad, Michael picked his rosary and bible back up. 

She yells and kicks a can straight out into the road. This is possibly the worst time to compare herself to her fucking dad. 

The can lights up. She's confused, then turns around. Her guardian angel arrived.

Despite everything, the complete and utter fuckery of this entire situation, she can't help but laugh a bit at the rotting teddy bear strapped to the front of the Bodhi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the fact that my awful trikey pwp from 4 years ago is getting more engagement than this makes me depressed
> 
> hey look, tracey called trevor this time! arent yall so proud of her hahaha
> 
> rip sam all he wanted was some coochie


End file.
